


The Jump

by coffeeandcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Domestic Violence, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endgame Destiel, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Gaslighting, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, POV Alternating, Protective Castiel, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: To the average person, Dean Winchester's life looks perfect. He tells himself he's lucky, that he has everything he ever dreamed of, and that every relationship has its ups and downs.Castiel Novak keeps to himself, career-driven, surrounding himself with his books and his work and actively refusing to become involved with anyone who might split his focus. He's lonely, but he can't have everything. Can he?When a chance encounter brings the two men together, their lives begin to change in ways neither could anticipate as they embark on a friendship that could lead to so much more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Destiel story of 2019! 
> 
> This story deals with some quite dark themes so please check the tags. The domestic violence is not between Dean and Cas, and deals with both physical and emotional abuse which might be triggering for some.

A bouquet of flowers sits proudly on Castiel’s desk.

They're fairly pleasant to look at, a modest mixture of long-stemmed roses in red, pink and white, nestled in a glass vase and decorated with a ribbon. To one side sits his computer monitor, a sleek Apple iMac with more functions than he can care to remember, forced upon him when his old Acer gave up the ghost last month. And on the other is his fifth black coffee of the day in a mug that reads ‘ _Hey, assbutt_!’ A gift from Meg.

He eyes the roses with distrust. They didn't come with a tag. They smell nice, the perfume permeating the entire room, but he doesn't know why they're here. He's been wondering about them all morning, concerned that they've been delivered to the wrong person. It’s Valentine’s Day at the weekend, so there’s every chance the roses got lost on their way to the intended recipient. There’s also a chance someone did send them to him, but he can’t think who. Either way, he’s decided to feign ignorance and keep them. They do make the dusty little office smell fresher and they brighten up the place. He’s not about to go walking up and down the street in search of someone who may or may not be expecting them. He’d make himself look completely ridiculous, which is one of his least favourite things to do.

He sighs and turns another page of his book, running a finger down the margin until he finds his pencilled-in note. Latin translations are his favourite and his forte, but sometimes they do get a little dry, especially when the text is a historical recount of a particularly uninteresting event. Which this is. It’s been a quiet day. His is the only rare bookshop in the city but it isn’t always busy. These days he negotiates a lot of his business via email or on the phone, and walk-in customers tend to be few and far between. It isn’t lucrative, not always, and anything he does make he almost always invests back into texts for either himself of the shelves of his shop. The walls are lined with books of all shapes and sizes, from every corner of the globe and in every language. They smell of years and years of use, of the people who have held them and thumbed through them in the past before they landed in Castiel’s capable hands, and he cherishes every one of them. Some he’s had rebound, others sit in glass cabinets or wrapped in plastic, all turned away from the meagre shafts of sunlight that somehow find their way down between the buildings and into the shop. It may not be much, but it’s his. It’s home.

He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes, glancing up as the door to his shop opens, allowing a gust of wind to sweep around the bookshelves, then it closes again and a pair of high-heeled shoes approach the office door.

“Clarence?” Meg raps on the open door with her knuckles, smirking as she sees him. Today her blonde hair is piled on top of her head and she’s got on the pair of highest, spikiest boots he’s ever seen. “You’re late.”

“Oh. Shit. Meg, I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”

They had planned to meet for lunch at one o’clock in the bakery downtown, owned by Castiel’s cousin. He steals a look at his watch and cringes at how long she must have been waiting.

“I got totally swept up in all this,” he gestures to the mess of books and papers on his desk, to the leather-bound text in front of him. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I apologise.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She produces a brown paper bag from her purse and drops it onto his desk. “Here. You have to eat, keep up your strength. You’re a growing boy.”

She nudges some paperwork out of the way and perches on the corner of his desk, eyeing the mounting piles of documents around him with a wary look. She’s sipping from a travel mug, probably a chai latte from the smell of it, and she puts it down and crosses her legs at the ankles, appraising him. She’s known him for a long time, since graduating college, and she’s his best friend. Best friend, confidante, sometimes-lover, never girlfriend. They tried that once and it didn’t work out. But she’s always been there for him, just as he’s been for her, and he can’t imagine life without her. 

“Have you been sleeping okay? Eating? Taking care of yourself?”

“Yes to all. I’m fine, Meg, just busy. Sorry I missed our lunch date.”

“You’re forgiven. You're shaking, Clarence.” Meg takes one of his hands in both of hers. “I think it's time to lay off the caffeine for the day.”

“You're probably right.” Castiel works his hand free and passes it over his eyes. “I can almost taste the molecules in each sip. I just wanted to be awake for tonight.”

“Oh, _that.”_ Meg rolls her eyes dramatically, so much so that Castiel worries for a moment that they may never recover. “I can't believe you're going. And l can't believe I agreed to let you drag me along. You owe me one.”

“I certainly do.”

The awards ceremony isn't his idea of a good time, either. He normally avoids such things like the plague - not that invitations get extended his way very often. His little shop in the quiet corner of town doesn't exactly call for many glamorous social events. Most people don’t even know he’s there unless they want something from him. But it's a charity event, a fundraiser, and in a moment of madness, he'd allowed Meg to convince him to buy tickets. He's now bitterly regretting it.

“I don't even have an appropriate suit to wear.” He groans into his hand. “I don't think suede elbow patches will cut it somehow.”

“You do you, Clarence.” Meg hops off the table and swipes her takeout chai from his desk as she heads for the door. “Fuck anyone who gives you any bullshit for your suit. I've got your back. But for the record, I prefer you in something without the elbow patches. Something less ‘geriatric professor’ vibe.”

“Thanks. I think.” He smiles at her and she winks back, already halfway out of the door.

“Oh, and Clarence?”

“Yes?”

“Does that dusty dictionary of yours have a definition for the word ‘commando’ in there? Because that's how I'll be tonight.”

Then she's gone in a cloud of chai spices and sweet perfume and Castiel stares after her, a little hot under the collar. He knows exactly what dress Meg is planning to wear tonight, a tight-fitting red number that shows off her curves in all the right way. She'd sent him a photo of it the night before. And if her flirty farewell means anything, neither of them will be going home alone tonight. Maybe he should hire a tuxedo after all.

He smiles to himself, leaning back in his chair and clicking the mouse to reactivate the screen. His wallpaper of a kitten hanging from a branch greets him along with a notification of incoming emails. Two first-edition book requests that could take him months to source, and a confirmation that his translated notes on a lesser-known Nabokov work had been received by his agent. He sighs, eyeing the roses balefully before getting back to work. They sit there on his desk, staring back at him, impervious to his workload. 

It's going to be a long afternoon.

 

*

 

“And the award for best-dressed couple of the night goes _to_ …”

Gabriel’s voice can be heard from the opposite side of the hallway as Dean walks past the doorman, awkwardly adjusting his tie and wanting nothing more than to turn around and head straight back to the car and head in the general direction of home. Or The Roadhouse. Or anywhere really, anywhere that isn't here.

The room is heavily perfumed, a rich aroma of money and overpriced cologne, and the prospect of spending the evening rubbing shoulders with Kansas City’s rich and famous fills him with alarming dread. The three fingers of whisky he'd downed before leaving the house has mellowed him a bit, but his chest still spasms with anxiety as he enters the hallway of the hotel. Beyond the milling crowds he can see the event room, glittering with blue and white lights and sparkling decorations. _Some charity event_ , he thinks sourly. _This cost a damn fortune. Imagine the good all this money could have done._ But he doesn't voice it. Mainly because he doesn't get a chance.

“To Samwise and myself, _obviously._ ” Gabriel Novak’s arm snakes around his shoulders and the younger, boisterous man is at his side in an instant, beaming, an almost-empty glass of wine held loosely in his other hand. Behind him, Dean’s younger brother trails with a rueful smile and greets Dean apologetically.

“I wasn't sure you were coming.”

“Neither was I. But Amara wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I didn't. She thought I was joking when I said I’d rather stay in and watch reruns of Dr. Sexy.”

“Wouldn't we all,” Gabriel muses with a faraway look in his eyes. “I can think of a few positions that would make excellent use of those cowboy boots.”

Sam blushes scarlet and stumbles over an apology but Dean grins, relaxing into the evening minutely. If he's sitting with Gabe and Sam, this entire shindig might not be so torturous. He appraises his brother with interest. Sam’s charcoal suit looks brand new, and are those cufflinks glinting at his wrists? A glass of champagne is pressed into his hand by a passing waiter and he downs half of it in one long swallow. He's going to need it tonight.

“Where is she, anyway?” Gabriel peers around Dean as though he's got his girlfriend squirrelled away under his armpit or something. “Don't tell me you forgot to pick her up.”

“No, genius. She's talking to someone.”

Dean turns but can't see Amara anywhere. She's not easy to miss in a crowd and certainly not tonight, with her long dark hair in flowing curls down her back and a red sequinned dress that hugs her figure. He dreads to think how much that cost him and, at the thought of his bank balance, finishes off the rest of his champagne and scans the room to find the bar.

He hates events like this. He's not cut out for them. He's a mechanic, granted the business is his own and he does well out of it, but he's more at home in his battered jeans and band shirts than in suits and fancy hotels. But he's also a supportive boyfriend and tonight is about Amara, not him. No matter how much he'd like to be at home on the couch.

The event is to raise money for the city’s firefighters, and it’s a cause close to Dean’s heart. His father had trained as a firefighter the year after his mother died, and it became his passion and his career for the remaining years of his life. Alcoholism had taken him in the end, but Dean had never been more proud of his father’s achievements, of the lives he saved in his years on the force. So when Amara told him of her plans to host a dinner in support of the local fire service, he knew he wouldn’t be able to pass this one over. She’s accepted a generous donation from him as well, telling everyone how her wonderful boyfriend was the main supporter of her event, and it made Dean’s ears burn every time she said it. He hates the limelight, always has. He’d rather cheer from the sidelines, but with Amara at his side it isn’t always possible.

He heads to the bar and orders a whisky which he downs there and then, turning away so that Sam doesn’t see him. He knows how his brother feels about him drinking at all. Sam is all but teetotal now, drinking only in company and even then hardly at all. He can’t blame him, not really, not after the way their father drank himself to death. But not everyone has the Sam Winchester degree in self-control. He rejoins the pair who are laughing together at something, and watches the party go on around them. Women dressed up beautifully, men in suits and shining shoes. Cigar smoke and Creed cologne. The stench of the elite. His hand shakes and he shoves it in his pocket, ruining the line of his suit, and wishes he’d brought another drink back from the bar.

“Darling, there you are. I've been looking everywhere for you.”

Amara’s hand closes around his and he turns to allow her to catch his lips in a kiss. She’s wearing red lipstick the perfect shade to compliment her dress and as he leans in he can smell her rich, familiar perfume. Deep spices and cherries, and beneath that her own natural scent. It’s intoxicating and he wraps an arm around her waist to pull her close to his side. They’d got ready separately, Amara in her dressing room and Dean in the main bathroom, and she’d taken his breath away as she’d walked down the staircase to meet him in the hall. She smiles at Gabriel and Sam and they nod back politely.

“This is quite a party, Amara,” Sam says, lifting his glass to gesture to the room. “You should be proud of yourself, bringing all these people together.”

“Well, I do what I can.” She laughs lightly in an attempt at modest which fools nobody. “When you have so much, you should really give something back, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” Sam nods in agreement and Dean’s fingers tighten on his glass. They do have a lot, it’s true. A nice house in a good part of town, the rent paid by Dean. Two cars, the Impala and Amara’s new convertible. A joint gym membership in Dean’s name. A nice life. A comfortable life. One Dean works very hard for, and one Amara enjoys immensely.

“Isn’t that Castiel?” Sam points over Dean’s shoulder and he turns, interested. He’s heard the name before, and he wracks his brain to remember why.

“Yes!” Gabriel sounds surprised. “I had no idea he was coming. He normally avoids these things like the plague. We should say hi. Cassie! Over here!”

He raises his voice and his glass, waving into the crowd, and a moment later a couple extricate themselves and move over towards their small group. The woman is petite and curvaceous, pretty with dark eyes and wavy blonde hair that frames her face in tendrils. But her partner is who Dean is focused on, and he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away. The man is his height, maybe a little shorter, and broad-shouldered in a dark suit and paisley tie. He’s got defined features and blue eyes framed with dark lashes, eyes that seem to seek Dean out from a distance away. He swallows and returns his gaze to Amara who is watching them approach with a frozen smile on her face.

“Cassie, so good to see you.” Gabriel smiles at the pair, leaning over to clap the man on the shoulder and ruffle his already tousled hair. “This is my better half, Sam, but I think you’ve met. This is his brother, Dean, and Amara, Dean’s girlfriend. Everyone, this is my cousin Castiel and the ever-gorgeous Meg, who I never see enough of.”

He takes Meg’s hand and bows low to kiss it, making her shake her hair back and laugh at his antics. Castiel has moved away from Gabriel’s hand, scowling deeply, and is running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it back into place. It’s a losing battle, in Dean’s opinion.

“Hello gang,” Meg is greeting them all with a small, slightly mischievous smile. Her hand is on Castiel’s waist and she’s standing close to him. They’re involved, he surmises, at least on some level. Castiel doesn’t look quite as into it but perhaps it’s the presence of his cousin who is fixing him with a wide grin.

“Nice suit, Cassie. Did you dig it out of dad’s closet for the special occasion?”

“No.” Castiel adjusts his tie self-consciously. “I wore it to Michael’s wedding last year. It still fits.”

He phrases it as a question, sounding worried, and Gabriel nods to him approvingly. “You look great. Outshine by Meg, naturally, but aren’t we all?”

He looks around the group brightly, expecting the polite laughter that Castiel, Sam and Dean all indulge in. But Amara’s face is stony, her smile just the wrong side of friendly, and she tosses back her dark hair in a curtain then clears her throat.

“It looks like they'll just sell tickets to anyone these days, doesn’t it?” Amara says, her eyes raking coldly over Meg. They both wear red, but look starkly different. Dean can't help but think that Meg looks much more comfortable in her own skin, confident in a way that doesn't appear arrogant or self-involved. The polar opposite to Amara. “But I suppose it would be silly for a charity to refuse donations, no matter where they come from.”

Her laugh is glittery and false, and Meg doesn't join in. Her own gaze is icy and she appraised Amara slowly, head-to-toe, then slides her arm deliberately through Castiel’s. Flushing with embarrassment at Amara’s cutting words, Dean avoids the eyes of everyone else in the circle. He knows he should speak up and defend Meg, tell Amara that she's being catty and that she should apologise. But he can't make the words come. Instead, he focuses on his shoes in spite of his brother’s gaze boring into the side of his head. The silence seems never-ending.

“Well,” Castiel says finally and Dean’s eyes snap up to his face. “I think we’ll be taking our seats. Nice to meet you all. Gabriel, we’ll have a drink later?”

Then he's gone, Meg on his arm as she shoots both Dean and Amara a look that could freeze the seventh circle of Hell, and Dean feels his chest tighten in humiliation and remorse. Castiel had looked utterly flummoxed by Amara’s comments and by Dean’s inaction. He trails behind as they all head towards the event room, sensing Sam hang back to walk with him.

“Don't say it,” he says, preempting a lecture before Sam can even open his mouth. “You know what she's like.”

“I do, Dean.” Sam’s arm is suddenly on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks. His brother’s hazel eyes are dark with concern, his brow furrowed. It makes him look older, somehow. “We all know what she's like. But what I don't know is why you're still together. Even Gabe can't stand her, and he likes everyone.”

Dean wants to bite back that Gabriel _doesn't_ like everyone, that he's infuriatingly particular about whom he spends his time with. But it would be a poor attempt at deflection, one that his younger brother would see straight through.

“I love her, Sammy.” He claps Sam on the shoulder, smiling in spite of himself. It feels like his face might crack with the effort. “We all have flaws. She's fantastic, she really is. I'm a lucky guy.”

And he makes his way into the function room towards their seats at the front, taking another glass of champagne from the nearby waiter, already feeling the buzz of alcohol coursing through his veins. He can feel Sam’s gaze tracking him all the way to their table.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *strolls in with Starbucks* Two chapters in two days? That is SO unlike me!

It's late when Dean and Amara finally stumble through their front door, both at different levels of inebriation. The night was a roaring success and Dean couldn't contain the swell of pride he felt as he watched Amara up on stage, thanking the fire service for their years of hard work and presenting them with a cheque that made their mouths drop open. He'd been on his feet applauding as soon as her speech had finished and she'd blown him a kiss from the stage, looking a million bucks. They'd slow-danced together, later on, he'd drunk tequila shots with Gabriel and had shared an illicit cigar with Sam outside - a decision he knows his brother will baulk at come morning. Sam will probably wash his mouth out with soapy water and need a lie down to cope with the trauma. He sniggers at the idea, almost overbalances and only just manages to catch himself on the closet door as the room sways around him. Maybe that last beer wasn't such a good idea.

Amara is downstairs in the kitchen, clattering about and talking on her cell phone to someone, laughing loudly. He leans over and pushes the bedroom door closed, wanting some peace and quiet. Their bedroom is cool and spacious, decorated with clean lines and soft blankets. On the wall hangs his framed copy of Led Zeppelin’s platinum vinyl, a gift from his father, and on the opposite wall is a poster of _Tombstone_ , signed by three of the actors and the director. A gemstone he'd found on eBay and paid over the odds for.

He unties his tie and hangs it in the closet. His jacket next, then he unbuttons his shirt slowly, absently. He's thinking back over their night. Sam and Gabriel had looked so darn happy together that it made his heart melt for his little brother. Sam had had a rocky few years at college before meeting Gabriel, falling in with a bad crowd and taking too many drugs, but now he's straightened his life out - Dean smirks at his own pun - and settled down with Gabriel, plus he has a thriving career as a human rights lawyer to boot. Life is good for the youngest Winchester and Dean is eternally grateful. John Winchester had always wanted the best for his kids, and Dean is sure his father is smiling down upon Sam right now. On himself, too.

“You're damn lucky, Dean,” John had told him once as they shared beers outside on the porch of John’s house late one summer’s evening. “Your own business and a woman who loves you. Plenty of men would kill for less.”

And it's true. They would.

He breathes in deeply, but before he can let it out the door opens and closes behind him.

Dean jumps. He doesn't mean to, but he's so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't hear Amara enter the room or walk up behind him. Her hands trail up his back to his shoulders and she presses her body into him. She's cold against his warm skin.

“Where did you go?” She murmurs, her lips pressing against his pulse. “I turned around and you'd gone.”

“I need a shower,” He smiles at her in the mirror. “And I wanted to get out of this suit.”

Her nails rake lightly down his back and he flinches as they graze a scratch from the other night. They'd got carried away in bed and she'd drawn blood. She presses another kiss to the nape of his neck then steps away.

“Go shower. You need it.”

She laughs, sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders and shimmying out of it, moving to the closet to hang it up. Dean lifts an arm and sniffs curiously. He thinks he smells okay but then again he's had a night of fairly heavy drinking and Amara is marginally more sober than he is so she's probably right. He stumbles into the bathroom, bracing himself against the shower screen and feeling the glass give a little beneath his hand. He strips off the remainder of his clothes and stands for a moment just looking at himself in the mirror. He looks okay, he thinks, for a guy in his mid-30s. His hair is still as thick and shiny as it's always been, no sign of grays yet. Fine lines around his eyes, laughter lines at his lips. A decent tan from working outdoors and weekends spent hiking and fishing. Green eyes that look darker in certain lights and brighter in others. A crease between his forehead that he's sure wasn't this deep last time he looked. He scrubs at it with a crooked knuckle but it doesn't fade.

He's been pretty stressed lately, he concedes. His garage is always busy and ever since Adam quit to go travel the West coast he's been pushing himself harder than ever, taking on additional work and trying to interview prospective candidates whenever he has an hour free. But somehow, even with his sixty-hour working weeks, money is tight. He hasn't mentioned anything to Amara but their bank account is lower than it has been in months. No, years. He swallows hard, tries not to think about it. It's late, he's been drinking, it's a problem for another day.

He takes a long time in the shower, enjoying the solitude. He tips his head back, lets the water stream down over his face and into his mouth. It's a little too hot, close to scalding, but he finds he needs it. It soothes his sore back, makes the cuts smart then ease into a dull, almost pleasant ache. It helps the knot beneath his ribs, ever-present and for no real reason, loosen. He washes himself slowly, their jojoba oil body wash feeling good as he soaps up his skin. When he finally shuts off the water, it's past three in the morning and he's exhausted. Eyes heavy with sleep and alcohol, he dries off and walks nude into the bedroom, pulling a clean pair of boxer-briefs from the drawer and climbing into bed next to Amara. He only stumbles a little now. There's a perspiring glass of water on the nightstand and two aspirin which he swallows down gratefully, thankful for her consideration. She's already asleep, her hair tied in a knot on the top of her head, and she turns to snuggle into his side. The blankets feel too heavy, suffocating, but he pulls them up to his chin anyhow and turns his head to look across the room, out of the window. The moon hangs low in the sky and he watches as a cloud makes its slow path across it, fluffy and gray.

The room spins when he closes his eyes. He's pleasantly drunk, probably won't have a hangover tomorrow if he wakes up and drinks his body weight in water then swings by McDonald's on the way back from his morning jog. He won't tell Amara. She disapproves of his love for burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. But what she doesn't know won't hurt her.

He turns onto his side and is asleep within minutes, Amara curled against his back. When he wakes the next morning, the aspirin have done their job and he's blissfully hangover-free.

 

*

 

Castiel wakes long into the night, drenched in sweat with a numb left arm and a dull ache between his temples. He blinks up into the darkness, disoriented for a moment until he realises that he isn’t in his own bedroom and the warm body curled up at his side is Meg. He manages to shift them both until he can pull away and sit up, running a hand through his damp hair and leaning over to push the window open. Meg always keeps the heat on too high, and even though the sheets have been kicked to the bottom of the bed and they’re both lying entirely nude, Castiel is far too hot. It makes him feel slightly sick and his throat feels clogged, sticky. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth from dehydration.

He extracts himself from the bedding and pads to the kitchen, pouring a glass of cold water and drinking it slowly as he leans a hip against the counter, unconcerned with his nudity in the silence and solitude of the dark apartment. The only light seeping in comes from the streetlamp outside, and the blissful quiet is punctuated by the sound of cars going past infrequently. A dog barks somewhere below the window. Meg lives above a thrift store and spends the majority of her weekly pay in there, frequently showing up at Castiel’s bookshop to show him her latest bargain. Her red dress is draped over the back of the couch, crumpled now, her heels discarded beneath it. An empty wine bottle is on its side on the coffee table with two wine glasses next to it. God, they were drunk. No wonder his head is pounding.

They’d fucked passionately over the kitchen counter, then again on the couch. And again in the bedroom, Meg on top, and alcohol giving Castiel a burst of stamina he wasn’t expecting but was certainly grateful for. They hadn’t bothered to clean up, too spent from their activities, and Meg had curled her naked body up against him, laughing as she'd caught her breath. He'd kissed the pads of her fingers and eventually he’d fallen asleep with his hand in her hair and her breath coming in gentle puffs against his chest. She's lovely in every way, and he knows they both wish it could work out as boyfriend and girlfriend. But they drive each other crazy if they even hang out for too long, so a long-term relationship is out of the question. He can't stand how messy she is, and she's easily infuriated by what she casually refers to as the ‘stick up his butt’. Their friendship is ten years strong and they've both seen men and women pass between them as fleeting affairs, half-hearted attempts at serious romance, only for them to come together again and again as lovers and close friends. Castiel sometimes wonders if he'll ever find anyone special, anyone he loves and cherishes more than Meg. Anyone who lights a different kind of fire within him. Anyone who's better in bed than she is, can make him see stars when he comes the way she does. He isn't sure. He hopes so, because he knows for certain that one day she'll find a man of her own, fall in love and settle down, and he’ll be left watching from the sidelines. It's a thought that makes him feel suddenly cold and he rubs his arm absently. Tonight isn't the night to feel lonely, not when she's waiting for him in bed.

He wonders what time it is. The clock on the microwave reads twelve-thirty in the afternoon, the victim of a power outage and nobody had ever bothered to reset it. It’s probably close to dawn, judging by the cool blue hues of the night sky outside. Castiel yawns hugely, finishes his drink, then heads back to bed, stretching out on his back and gazing up at the ceiling. He won’t sleep now. Next to him, Meg mumbles something irritably, no doubt telling him to quit wandering about and to go back to sleep. He pats her thigh soothingly and in minutes she’s fallen asleep again, snoring lightly, and Castiel closes his eyes in a futile bid for sleep.

He never sleeps particularly well after a night of drinking. Especially when he was so rattled when they’d returned home last night. The evening had been fine, but the words that the woman with the long dark hair had thrown at them had stuck in his head. He can’t even remember her name, but what he does remember he doesn’t like. Her supercilious smile, her barbed comments which clearly showed how superior she thought she and her friends were. And the way her boyfriend - husband? - had just _stood_ there at her side like a kicked puppy and hadn’t said a word. It left a bad taste in Castiel’s mouth. Rudeness always does, but when it’s directed at him and, worse, Meg it really bothers him. He wished he had said something there and then, called the woman out on her behaviour. But he had felt so out of place at the event to begin with that causing a scene would certainly not have improved the evening at all.

He fumbles on the nightstand for his phone and squints at his emails. One from a guy overseas, Raphael, searching for a rare edition of a script from the Old Testament. Fat chance, Castiel thought, but if anyone can find it then he can. He knows why people come to him with this type of peculiar, unorthodox request. He has a reputation amongst his peers for being able to source things nobody else can, and he’s made a name for himself within his niche industry. He wonders where Raphael got his name and email address from. The screen is blurred without his glasses and he has to close one eye and squint to read it properly.

He doesn’t sleep another wink, spending the remainder of the night researching possible sellers for this request, and coming up with a couple of names which he jots down in his notes app. Meg stirs around dawn, hungover and grumpy, and Castiel excuses himself to shower and throw on his suit from last night to embark on his walk of shame home. He only lives a few blocks away so it isn’t far, and there’s a decent coffee shop on his way. A double-espresso would definitely clear the cobwebs of his hangover and help him think clearly for the day ahead. He isn’t opening the shop until ten, officially, but he knows he’ll be there well before, buried up to his neck in research and likely forgetting to switch his little sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’.

“I’m leaving,” he bends to kiss Meg on the cheek, his hair damp from the shower and droplets falling onto her bare skin. She pushes him away, smiling lazily.

“No problem, Clarence. Thanks for a wild night.”

“ You're very welcome. Thanks for forcing me to buy the tickets. I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t. I’ll call you.” She yawns widely, turning over to lie on her stomach and Castiel appraises the long line of her spine and the curve of her waist, the soft lines of her buttocks and the shadow between her legs. His groin tightens and he forces himself to turn away. He has places to be this morning, he can’t just fall into bed.

He lets himself out, draping his jacket over his arm, and enjoys his morning walk to the coffee shop. The sun is coming up, warming his skin. It’s going to be a nice day. He gets his coffee to go and spends the morning buried in his books, mind on nothing but his work. He forgets all about the charity event and the rude couple he'd haplessly stumbled upon.

He’ll probably never see either of them again anyway.

 

*

 

Sunday brunch has to be Sam’s favourite part of the week. Gabriel always cooks for them both, makes it special, and they laze around together for most of the morning listening to the radio or going for a walk with the dogs, or lying tangled in the sheets and each other’s arms. They've been together a while now, and the familiarity is soothing and comforting in a way he knows Gabriel never expected it to be.

The older man is a paragon of sexual prowess, always has been, and nobody expected him to settle down with anyone, least of all Sam with his doe eyes and floppy hair and penchant for movie nights and stargazing. He's got a history that Sam hasn't shared with anyone, not even Dean. Gabriel’s successful career in the artisanal baking industry is fairly new, an unexplored talent that he hadn't bothered much with at all until he'd met Sam. Before that, Gabriel Novak had been in the porn industry. Always behind the camera, never in front, and working under a pseudonym. But he swore Sam to secrecy on their third date, telling him that part of his life was well and truly behind him now and that he didn't want Sam’s family and friends to have a skewed view of him as a person. Sam doesn't mind, not really. He would if Gabriel wanted to continue in the adult entertainment industry, but he'd said himself that he was ready to leave, to move on. To settle down. To find The One - which Sam always found incredibly childish and cheesy until Gabriel had turned to him one evening during a walk by the river and told Sam, very genuinely, that he was in love with him and that he wanted them to spend their lives together.

“You're it for me, Sammy.” He'd said, eyes dark and intense, looking more serious than Sam had ever seen him. “I want it all with you. The nice house, the picket fence, the dog, the damn kids if that's what you want. Whatever you want. But I just want you.” Then he's squeezed his hand and given him an impish grin. “You'd better want me in return or I'll push you off the pier.”

Sam hadn’t been pushed into the river that night. Instead, they'd found a realtor the very next day and had moved in together within the month. Dean had crowed with superior, brotherly delight for him and Amara had been sweet and encouraging. Sam often wonders what changed, why the woman has now transformed into an ice queen when once upon a time she'd been nothing but gentle, affectionate and fun. He supposed people just change with age. Dean certainly has. He and Gabe probably have too, but only in good ways.

This morning, when Sam emerges from the shower in sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, he finds Gabriel standing at the stove humming a tune to himself, lost in what he's doing. Sam creeps up behind him, slides both arms around his waist and presses a kiss to his temple. A warm hand comes up to cup his jaw and Gabriel turns to kiss him on the mouth.

“Good morning to you too,” Gabriel smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes like it normally does. He seems distracted, lost in thought as he turns back to their food, popping a capsule into the Keurig to make Sam his usual soy caramel latte. The machine buzzes to life and they both watch it for a moment. There's a tension in the air and Sam’s sure he knows what it's about.

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair to push it back from his face, and decides to bite the bullet. If they can get whatever it is talked about and out of the way, they can enjoy the rest of their day together. “What’s on your mind, Gabe?”

“Your brother,” Gabriel says, and Sam shoots him a dry look. “Not in that way. You know what I mean. Dean. Amara. The whole shebang they’ve got going on. I don’t want to be the one to say it, Sammy, but do you really think they’re happy together?”

Pulling out a chair at the table, Sam sits down and stretches his long legs out in front of him. This could be a long conversation and not one he particularly wants to have in spite of the fact that he’s spent the entire week wondering exactly the same thing. He's surprised they've got to the weekend without either of them bringing it up. Gabriel plates up crispy waffles, douses them in whipped cream and maple syrup, tops with strawberries soaked in balsamic vinegar, and deposits his work of art in front of Sam.

“Ta-dah! Breakfast  _à_ _la_ me. Enjoy.” He pulls his own chair out with a screech that makes Sam’s ears ache, and almost swoons as he pops one of his own strawberries into his mouth. “Not to toot my own horn, but I am extremely talented.” He pushes a mug of coffee across to Sam who takes it gratefully. He’s going to need his energy for this. “So, about this brother of yours.”

“I should have known that not even food could distract you from this discussion.” Sam swallows a mouthful of the fluffiest, most buttery waffles he can ever remember having and closes his eyes in rapture. Damn. Gabriel _is_ good at what he does. “You know what Dean’s like. Him and Amara, I don’t completely understand it either. But he loves her and we should probably respect that.” 

He hopes that will be enough to satisfy Gabriel, but the sardonic look he receives in return suggests otherwise. He should have known his astute partner would never be so easily dissuaded from a discussion such as this.

“Sam, come on. You’ve seen how Amara treats him. And other people. I don’t know how Dean stands for it, I swear.” Gabriel chews, swallows, gulps a mouthful of coffee all in the same three seconds. “I should have said something when she decided to be such a bitch to Castiel the other night. I think I was too shocked to respond.”

“I think we all were,” Sam mumbles, eyes on his plate. He remembers the shock that had passed over Castiel’s face and the raised eyebrow Meg had given the group when nobody spoke up to defend them. He feels equally as guilty for not challenging Amara’s cutting words. “I thought Dean would have said something to her. Maybe he did, later on. They left in a hurry.”

“Don’t you think she can be a bit,” Gabriel swirls his coffee, eyes upcast to the ceiling in search of what Sam is certain will be a more diplomatic word than the one he initially thought of. “Domineering. Especially when it comes to Dean.”

“He seems happy,” Sam shrugs. “They’ve been together a long time. I remember dad really liked her, and that was important to Dean, finding someone he approved of. They’ve got a great life together. I wish I could afford their gym.”

“We can afford their gym,” Gabriel reminds him, a slight edge to his voice. “But I’d rather go somewhere less pretentious that doesn’t cost two hundred dollars a month. Did Dean tell you that he has to pay extra for the tennis lessons? They aren’t even included!”

“Tennis lessons?” Sam grimaces. “Dean with a tennis racket? Nope, can’t see it.”

His brother had been fairly athletic at school, when he felt like putting the effort in. But these days he prefers jogging and lifting weights to any sort of competitive or team sport. Unless that’s another thing Amara has managed to persuade him into doing.

Dean has changed somewhat in recent months. In the last year, if Sam’s truthful with himself. It started when they sold their apartment downtown, near to Dean’s work and Sam and Gabriel’s place, and moved out into the suburbs. They don’t see each other as much now, maybe one weekend a month if Dean has a barbecue or if they all meet down at The Roadhouse for dinner. If they do that, Amara never comes. She hates the loud music and the food, but Sam honestly doesn’t miss her presence. Dean seems more relaxed when he’s by himself, more like his old self. He retreats inwards in the presence of his girlfriend, yet when Sam has tentatively broached the subject in the past he’s been rebuffed or viciously snapped at, depending on Dean’s mood.

“Sammy, what the fuck?” He’d asked once, after one too many beers. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world. Why the fuck do you keep insisting that I’m unhappy? Are you jealous or something?”

That has sparked a huge fight and they hadn’t spoken for almost a month. Eventually, Dean had called him up and they’d met for dinner. Dean had apologised, citing a bad day at work and a fight with Amara as the cause of his sharp words, but something between them has remained stiff and uneasy ever since. Sam hasn’t brought up his concerns about his brother’s relationship ever since, not wanting to drive a wedge between them. If Dean says he’s happy, he has to believe him and trust his older brother’s judgement. But after Amara’s behaviour at the charity event and Gabriel bringing the subject up, he’s now being forced to think about it all again and the old worries are rearing their ugly heads.

Banjo, their ginger mutt, pushes his head into Sam’s lap and wags his tail, soulful eyes gazing up in the hope that table scraps might be coming his way. Sam scratches him behind the ears absently, still stuck on Gabriel’s words. He’s right, truly. Amara is domineering. She’s glamorous and charismatic and steals the limelight in any social situation, which she uses extensively to her advantage. He should probably try and talk all this over with Dean sometime soon, check in with his brother and make sure everything really _is_ okay. Perhaps there’s some trouble in paradise and all Dean needs is a signal that it’s okay to talk about it.

“I’ll speak to him this week,” he says and Gabriel nods in approval. “I hope Castiel wasn’t too upset.”

“He’ll be fine. Cassie doesn’t take shit like that to heart. Water off a duck’s back.” Gabriel finishes his plate of waffles and narrows his eyes at the pan as though he’s trying to decide whether to polish off the last one. “It’s his date I’d worry about. That Meg is a feisty one. If she and Amara wound up in a ring together, I know who my money would be on.”

Sam had seen the scorn in the petite blonde’s eyes as she’d regarded Amara. He’d definitely side with Gabe on this one.

“Now. Finish your brunch. I need to change the bedsheets and shower. Maybe you can help me out with both those things. If I’m going to get clean, I may as well get dirty first.”

Gabriel sends Sam a sideways glance and a wink, then they’re laughing and entwining hands across the kitchen table before stumbling to the bedroom together, exchanging sweet, syrup-sticky kisses. They make short work of their clothing and the rest of the morning is spent in languid pleasure, relaxed against the mess of sheets and pillows while the dogs curl up together in the kitchen and wait patiently for their afternoon walk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the tags and warnings before reading this one, folks. It was tough to write.

_‘Dinner tonight?’_ the text reads, and Dean stares at his phone for so long that the screen goes dark as the handset locks itself. He doesn’t switch it back on. Instead, he turns it over and over in his hands, waiting for his coffee to brew, and mulling over how to respond. Dinner with Sam and Gabriel. Tonight. At their place, presumably. He should go. Of course he should go. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t. He had been planning to go to the gym on his way home from work later, but it’s a Saturday night and even Sam wouldn’t consider that a valid excuse. Gabriel certainly wouldn’t.

He adds a half-spoon of sugar to his espresso and drinks half of it in one gulp, wincing as the liquid scalds the roof of his mouth. It’s early, a half hour after dawn, and Dean’s been up for ages already. He’d woken with a start from a nightmare, sitting up with his heart pounding and his hands fisted in the sheets, feeling nauseous and hot all over. He doesn’t remember the specifics, but it was a familiar nightmare. Pinned in a crashed, crumpled car with the smell of gasoline all around him. Fighting against the seatbelt crushing his chest, restricting his breathing and getting tighter by the second. Glass everywhere, tearing his hands and face to shreds. Screaming for help until his throat is bloody and raw, but nobody coming to his aid. Shadowy figures in his peripheral figure, familiar people, watching him suffer and cry but not stepping in to help him. It’s a nightmare he’s relived over and over throughout his life, one that gets progressively worse the older he gets, and it always causes him to wake up with a piercing cry of distress. Normally Amara will kick him in the shins or pinch him until he snaps out of it, but this morning he must not have been making enough noise to wake her. He’d disentangled himself from the bedsheets, leaving them damp with his own sweat and shut himself in the bathroom, breathing hard and leaning over the sink, locking eyes with his reflection until his heart rate calmed. He’d showered in cold water, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt - a Calvin Klein one he didn’t remember buying but one Amara must have put in his drawer for him - and had gone for a run to clear his head.

Now, he’s back in the kitchen and listening to the shower turn on above him, and wondering how to reply to his brother. Things have been tense between them lately, there’s been a weird distance that he hasn’t managed to shake off. But maybe this is the olive branch that they need to help them get back on track. He and Sam fight like any siblings do, but never seriously. Not often, at least. And if they do then at least one of them comes grovelling to apologise. But this time they haven’t exactly fought, so neither one can apologise. He sights and swipes his phone screen to light it up. He’s out of excuses, plus it’ll be fun. He can take some beers, maybe they can rent a movie, and it’ll be like old times.

 _Sure, sounds great,_ he types back. _What time?_

 _Seven,_ Sam shoots back instantly, the three dots at the bottom of the screen blinking as he continues to type. _Bring burgers and beer, Gabe will barbecue._

He can't help but smile at that. Gabriel’s barbecues are legendary, and always last long into the night even if it's just the three of them. Drinking, board games, throwing balls for the dogs, it’s just what he needs. He types a reply to Sam and locks his phone, turning to the refrigerator to pull out eggs and milk for pancakes, thinking about the night ahead of him.

“Dean?” Amara appears in the doorway, dragging a comb through her long damp hair. “What are you smiling about?”

He finishes his coffee then goes to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her on the cheek.

“Gabe and Sam are having a barbecue tomorrow. I'll be going for dinner.” He's about to check if Amara minds spending the evening by herself but she squeezes his hand and smiles widely.

“Oh, that sounds wonderful! I'll bring some wine. What time?” She slips past him into the kitchen and he's left standing in the empty doorway, trying to think of something to say. “I'll have to buy a new dress. None of my old ones from last summer fit me any more. I can't believe I ever fit into any of them.”

There's a self-deprecating note in her voice, something woeful and forlorn, and Dean knows it well. He turns and appraises her, smiling warmly.

“You're beautiful, Amara. You were beautiful last year and you're beautiful now. You haven't gained a pound. C’mere.”

She moves back towards him, smiling coyly and wrapping her arms around his neck. “You think?”

“Of course.” He presses a kiss to her lips. She smells sweet, like cherries on a summer’s day. “Amara listen, about tomorrow night…”

“I'm looking forward to it already!” She kisses him and pulls away. “Your brother’s boyfriend is such fun.”

She doesn't comment on Sam. She never does. He sometimes wonders if she likes him at all, but when he thinks back they seemed to get on well in the past. Maybe they all need to spend more time together, get to know each other again. Bond. Family ties. That sort of thing.

“Yeah.” He squeezes her around the waist, pressing a kiss to her hair and she laughs, pushing him away and picking up where he left off with preparing breakfast. “I’m sure it will be.”

 

*

 

“Dean!” Gabriel opens the door, beaming. He leans in for a quick hug, and Dean feels the exact moment when he spots Amara walking up the path behind him. His body stiffens slightly but by the time he pulls back he’s managed to cover it and is grinning again, reaching to take her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles in an over-the-top display that she loves. She laughs breathily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and Dean trails behind as they all walk together into the house.

Sam and Gabriel have a sprawling house in the suburbs with a porch wrapping around the front and a little wooden fence painted white. Gabriel says its ironic, but Dean knows that they both kinda like it. It’s pleasant, homely, and Dean’s happy for them. The place doesn’t have the cool, sterile feel that his own does now that he and Amara have consolidated all their belongings and bought new furniture to furnish the place to both their tastes. More her taste, if he’s honest, but it doesn’t matter. Couches and TV units aren’t what makes a house a home in his eyes, it’s the people inside it. He tries not to think too hard on why his own place doesn’t feel quite like a home any more.

“Heya Sammy,” He thunders down the steps from the decking onto the lawn where Sam is tending barbecue, a four-pack of beers in his hand, and claps his brother on the shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind me bringing a plus one.”

“Amara’s here?” Sam’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t react beyond that. “Great! Is Gabriel fixing her a drink?”

“Sure is. Do you need a hand with that? Barbecuing steak is a man’s job.”

“You’d better take a seat and watch then, Deanna.”

Sam smirks back at him, pretending to whack him on the arm with the spatula. Dean ducks away, laughing, pressing down the hollow dart of alarm that threatened to rise at his brother’s jokey gesture. Sam wouldn’t really hit him, and it wouldn’t hurt if he did. He’s being stupid, reacting to it. He turns away to open two beers, handing one to his brother and leaning against the fence post to watch him cook.

“You guys seem really settled here.” He reaches down to scratch one of the dogs behind the ears as it runs up to him and noses up his legs, scenting him out until it realises who he is and gives a joyful bark. It’s Banjo, ginger and hairy and he sheds all over the soft furnishings, but Sam has nothing but love for the mutt.

“We are.” They clink bottles and Sam sets his aside while he flips the burgers, adding a fourth without comment. “The house is great, it’s near work. The neighbourhood is homey,” He casts a sideways glance at Dean. “It’d be nice if you guys moved into a place like this. Perfect to raise-“

“Dogs, right?” Dean cuts him off smoothly, kneeling down to ruffle the ears of Jarvis, their rescue Cocker who has trooped over obediently to see what all the fuss is about. He’s old, going blind and deaf, but is man’s secret favourite out of the pair. “You guys should get a third. All this space, seems like a waste not to.”

“Yeah. Seems like a waste.” Sam’s voice is guarded now and he’s watching Dean with a strange look on his face, one that carefully clears as Gabriel and Amara emerge from the house and descend down the stairs towards them. Amara is laughing gaily at something and Gabriel is smiling but it isn’t quite reaching his eyes. Dean stands, the dog turning to sit at his feet, and takes a deep swig from his drink. It’s going to be a long evening.

Gabriel finishes cooking, making a spectacle out of it as he pours rum on the burgers and sets them alight, making Amara laugh and clap her hands, encouraging him. Soon they’re settled around the outside table, candles lit and lights strung above them to create a mellow, calm atmosphere as the sun sinks below the horizon, and they sit down to eat together, feeling, to Dean, like a real family. He keeps catching Sam casting him furtive glances, looking between him and Amara, and Dean makes a special effort to pay attention to her, tucking her hair behind her ear or stroking her shoulder or kissing her cheek whenever he can. She enjoys it, pressing into his side and smiling up at him. It’s like old times again.

Until halfway through dinner, when Gabriel asks them if they have any plans for the summer and Amara nods eagerly.

“Oh, yes. I want to go to St. Barts. I read something in the _New Yorker_ about a new hotel in Gustavia and it looks so dreamy. I’m hoping Dean will take me there for our anniversary.” She laughs flirtatiously and Gabriel raises his eyes at Dean across the table.

“St. Barts. Wow. I’ll have to up my game soon, Dean, if this is how the Winchesters roll. And I thought our weekend in Dallas was something to write home about.”

“Maybe next summer,” Dean can feel how tight his smile is. It almost hurts his cheeks. He adds a laugh for good measure but it comes out a little strangled. “Money is kinda tight right now, so if we do go away it’ll be a weekend somewhere. Maybe Uncle Bobby’s cabin up in the mountains. Probably nowhere overseas, I’m afraid.”

“Money’s tight?” Sam is frowning now, and has stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Shit. “Not like, _tight_ tight.” Dean says, back-pedalling frantically. “But the budget just doesn’t stretch to overseas trip right now. Does it?”

He turns to Amara, reaching to take her hand, and is met with a stony smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. She tosses her hair back and sips her wine, taking her time as she answers. She doesn’t take his outstretched hand.

“I think Dean’s being a little overdramatic,” she says slowly, smiling at Sam over the rim of her glass. “We’re fine. Nothing to worry about.” She turns her attention back to Dean. “And of _course_ we can go away. You’re worrying too much.”

She takes his hand and squeezes it, smiling in a syrupy way that seems to appease Gabriel’s worried look but Sam doesn’t seem to be buying it. He’s put his cutlery down and is watching them carefully.

“Dean, if you need Gabe and I to loan you some money then you know we will. All you have to do is ask.”

“What?” He laughs, sipping from his own bottle and wishing the entire table wasn’t staring at him. Why did he have to say anything about money? “Sammy, that’s kind. Thanks. But we’re fine. If I ever need a loan, I’d rather owe the bank than you guys. But I don’t. Need a loan. We’re fine. Amara’s right, I was being dramatic. Everything’s fine.”

There’s a tense silence for a moment before Gabriel clears his throat.

“Well, here’s hoping you two get away for a few days at least. You deserve a break. Speaking of breaks, Sammy and I are heading back to Palo Alto next week, did he tell you? Some reunion of geeks - I mean, lawyers…”

Sam kicks him under the table and they both laugh, sharing a gooey smile that makes Dean sick with both disgust and envy. He remembers when he and Amara used to look at each other like that and mean it. His eyes drift back to her and she’s smiling at him, still holding his hand and rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, but her grip is a little tighter than it should be and there are lines at the corners of her mouth that don’t quite look right. She’s smarting from the conversation, he knows. She hates discussing money, so does he. He steels himself for a difficult conversation when they get home, and tries to enjoy the rest of the evening. Jarvis pushes his head into Dean’s lap and he sneaks him scraps from his plate, fondling his ears and enjoying the warm presence at his side.

The rest of the evening goes without a hitch, and later on Gabriel turns up the music and they play a lengthy game of Monopoly, Sam forcing them to continue way past the moment when even Gabriel groans and grumbles that he’s over it and wants to head inside to bed. Amara wins, and Gabriel kisses her hand in congratulations. The evening is a success.

Relatively.

 

*

 

He opens the door and stands back to let her in before him. She shrugs off her coat and hangs it on the hook, turning away from him and heading to the kitchen without taking off her stiletto heels. He sighs. They just had wood floor laid a couple of months back and she knows he hates it when people don’t take their shoes off before walking on it. He just doesn’t want it damaged before its time. Even Sam doesn’t let the dogs go running in there, he keeps them on their leads or directs them into the living room. Quashing his irritation, he follows her. She was silent the entire drive home, kissing Gabriel and Sam politely on the cheek as they left but then dropping his hand the second they reached the Impala. He’d played some music, some AC/DC to try and lighten the mood, but she’d remained cool and stony, resistant to any attempt at conversation. They’re going to fight, he knows it. May as well get it over with.

“Hey,” He leans a hand on the kitchen island, watching as she pulls out a chair and sits down at the table with folded arms, staring coldly over at him. “Do we need to talk?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Do we? Because it certainly seemed like it at your brother’s.” Her words are as sharp as her stare and he sighs, dropping his gaze to the floor. She never makes arguments easy.

“I just meant that we need to tighten our belts a bit. Stop spending money every time we turn around. Maybe cancel the gym for a few months…”

“Are you insane?” She laughs and it isn’t a pleasant sound. “We don’t need to do that, Dean. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Amara.” He massages his temples. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to start living in the real world. Our savings are depleted, our rent has gone up, I barely make enough money to cover our expenses these days, and I need you to help me out with this. We need to cut back a little.”

“And you decided to tell me this now? No, wait, not now. In front of your brother. Do you have any idea how that felt? Was it your intention to humiliate me? Because that’s what happened!”

“Perhaps if you stopped living a champagne lifestyle on a Diet Coke budget we wouldn't be in this mess.” He says tightly, harshly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He regrets them immediately but there they are, hanging between them in the silent kitchen, shining like a neon sign. Damn. He didn't mean to say that.

Amara gets up from the table and approaches him, her movements calm and collected and ice in her dark eyes. Dean wants to cringe away, turn his back, walk into the living room, but he doesn't. He stands his ground. They need to talk about this.

He hears the slap echo around the kitchen before he feels it. His cheek flares with raw pain and he flinches back in shock. It isn't the first time she's hit him, nor is it the hardest, but it's enough to make him take a step away, his hand coming automatically to his face, feeling the heat drawn to the surface of his skin in the shape of her hand. She grabs his arm, her acrylic nails digging in fiercely and he knows there will be bruises later. Maybe even broken skin. That's happened before. Then she's in his face, her eyes burning with contempt and he swallows a burst of anxiety at the sight. He's frozen, rigid with shock as he always is whenever they fight like this.

“It is not _my fault_ , Dean, that you're so lazy you can't earn enough to look after this family.” She's hissing at him like a snake, all venom and ice and he can't move away. The knot in his chest is building, tightening, threatening to choke him. His back hits the counter and he realises she's shoved him, crowding him, unfinished. “All you do is work at that crappy garage. No wonder we never have any money. What kind of career is that for a man? What kind of _ambition?_ It's pathetic, Dean. You need to get a real job, learn to take care of me properly. _I_ shouldn't have to be the breadwinner in this family. What happens when we have kids? How do you plan on supporting us?” She's sneering now, her red lips twisting unpleasantly. “You need a _career_ , Dean. Not some crappy job that barely pays the bills.”

She releases him and turns away in a flurry of expensive perfume and bouncing curls and Dean sags against the counter in shock, one hand still at his cheek and the other holding himself up in case his knees give out. They feel like they might. He watches her stalk across the kitchen, tossing her hair back over her shoulder as she pulls open the refrigerator and bends down to pull out a bottle of water which she uncaps and drinks from without looking at him.

“I’m going up to bed. Tonight was fun, your brother and his boyfriend sure know how to throw a party. Don’t be too long.”

Then she’s gone, leaving the kitchen in silence, turning the light off and leaving Dean standing alone in the dark. He pours himself two fingers of whiskey with a shaking hand, adds an ice cube, and stands in the dark kitchen drinking slowly. When he's finished, he pours another glass. Three fingers. It helps. By the time he ventures upstairs, he feels more mellow and walking into his bedroom to face Amara doesn't feel quite so daunting. His cheeks smarts, the bone beneath it aching. It won’t bruise, but it hurts. And he hurts elsewhere in his body, inside, beneath his heart. He feels sick and the alcohol doesn’t help, churning in his stomach, burning his throat. But he needs it. He can’t begin to rationalise all this without it.

Feet feeling heavy, lead-like, he ascends the stairs in the dark. She's in bed already, turned away so all he can see is her bare back, the delicate line of her neck, and her hair wound into a knot on the top of her head. He undresses slowly, the silence between them becoming louder and heavier as the minutes tick by. He doesn't turn on the light, doesn't want to wake her if she's asleep. Doesn't want to annoy her if she's not. It's too cold in the bedroom and his skin gooses as he fumbles in his drawer for a t-shirt to wear in bed, then eventually gives up and climbs in just in his boxers.

They lie quietly for so long that Dean feels sure Amara has fallen asleep. Her breathing is soft and even and he lets his eyes fall closed, mind caught between racing thoughts and zoned-out floating. Then Amara turns over, runs her fingers down his arm, and he can feel her smile at him in the dark.

“Dean? Are you still awake?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes open now, watching the ceiling. She doesn't say anything but he feels her shift, shimmying out of her underwear then he hears it hit the floor somewhere on his side. She presses up against him, nude, and he doesn't move. Her fingers trail up his chest, nails scraping lightly.

“You owe me, Dean. You know you do.”

Amara pushes the blankets back off them both and, in one swift movement, she kneels up and straddles Dean’s face, facing down the length of his body. She smells warm and musky and he tries to regulate his breathing and push down a beat of panic. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to turn over and go to sleep. He doesn't want to touch her, doesn't want her touching him. The memory of her slap is still too raw, the words thrown at him are still circling his mind. He wants to be still and quiet and alone. Untouched. But she's pushing down his boxers and his hands automatically come to her hips to steady her when she almost overbalances. He can't bring himself to put his mouth on her and she seems to know it.

“ _Dean_.”

There's warning in her voice. Her hand snakes down between his legs and his cock, which had been thickening treacherously against his thigh, softens at the spark of pain that bolts through him as she digs her long nails into his balls. His whimper of pain is muffled between her legs as she pushes herself down onto his mouth. His eyes sting with tears as his body tenses, repelled by her. Her nails leave hot streaks across his hip as she grips him, then begins to stroke him with quick, harsh movements that fall on the wrong side of uncomfortable. She knows what he likes, what gets him going. And it isn't this. She isn't touching him to arouse him, to show him love. She has an endgame, and his pleasure doesn't come into it.

He doesn't have a choice. He never has a choice, not these days. He closes his eyes, and gives in.

He licks her out until she comes, then she turns and impales herself on him, digging her nails into his chest and collarbone. His skin and eyes burn. It takes him a long time to come, his cock threatening to soften and slip from her as she berates him for his lack of stamina, for not arousing her enough, for not being as good in bed as he used to be. Every word is like a barb and he aches behind his ribs. It's over soon enough, but every moment seems too long. She showers, rinsing his release from her skin almost immediately. She can't stand the smell, she's told him before. It makes her gag.

Dean turns over, drawing the covers up over himself, mindful of the raw scratches that now adorn his hips and chest. Mindful of his red cheek from her slap. He should get up and put some antiseptic on the worst of it, should maybe shower himself and put on fresh underwear. But a weariness has him in its grip and he can't fight it off any more. He just wants to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow, go to work and pretend that today and tonight never happened.

But it did. It happened. And it will go down in Dean’s memory as just another bad night he had with Amara. The ‘for worse’ that married couples must refer to in their vows. No relationship is perfect, he tells himself. Everyone has dark patches, everyone fights. Everyone feels this way sometimes. Used.

Abused.

“That was amazing,” Amara slides back into bed behind him, cuddling up to his back. She smells of the champagne-strawberry body wash he bought her for Christmas. Her hair is damp, towel-dried, and it makes his skin crawl where it touches him. Her arm comes around his waist and she hugs him, nuzzling his neck. She's a different person now, all warm and soft, a stark contrast to the viper-tongued woman who had turned on him in the kitchen downstairs. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” He parrots, marvelling at how easily the words leave his lips. They only sound a little bit mechanical as well. Not enough for her to notice. Within minutes she's asleep, breathing hotly against the back of his neck, twitching slightly as she succumbs to dreams.

Dean lies awake all night and at a little past four in the morning his anxiety gets the better of him and he has to disentangle himself from her and the bedding to go and throw up in the bathroom. This is becoming a regular thing, lying awake and working himself up so badly that he makes himself ill. He needs to get it under control, to man up and stop having constant pity parties for himself. He has everything he ever wanted. He's _lucky._

Everything can't be perfect all the time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, showering you guys in chapters. Long may this muse live :)

“You're joking.” Meg slurps the rest of her iced coffee through the straw and pins Castiel a caustic look. “You _are_ joking?”

“No. I didn't think I'd _win.”_ Castiel sighs, twirling his pen between thumb and forefinger. He sits back in his chair, elbow on the arm and chin on his hand, glum. “What am I supposed to do?”

“This might be a completely wild suggestion,” Meg is smirking at him now. “But you could go. It's just the gym. You probably won’t die. Then again,” She pretends to squint at him then reaches over to feel his bicep. “You might. It's a risk you have to take.”

Castiel groans, covering his eyes with a hand. He hasn't worked out in years, not beyond going for the occasional jog when he notices that his stomach is a little softer than he generally prefers. And now he's just had a phone call to tell him he's won a month’s free gym membership thanks to the raffle ticket he bought at the charity event almost two weeks ago. He'd stuttered his thanks, hung the phone up, and levelled a look at Meg who had stared coolly back before bursting into such raucous laughter that tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I'm sorry, Cas,” she'd said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, eyeliner smudging a little as she does. “But I was just picturing you. In little shorts. Lifting weights. And… oh, that's it.”

More peals of laughter had followed and Castiel had sat and scowled at her while she made no attempt to rein herself in. Now, she starts to snigger again as she tosses her empty Starbucks cup in the trash and Castiel throws his pencil in her general direction. Irritatingly, she catches it.

“Are you finished?” He grumbles and she nods, snuffling behind her hand before tossing her curls back and smiling at him. “I can use it. I can go to the gym. I just haven't been for a while. It'll be fun.” He pauses, tries to make his next sentence casual. “You could come too. You can pay for a few sessions. It'd be fun.”

“Castiel.” Meg leans forward and rests her elbows on his desk, linking her fingers together. Her nails are painted black, the varnish a few days old and chipped at the tips. “I don't need an excuse to watch you get hot and sweaty. I have plenty of lingerie that has the same effect.”

“Meg!” He groans, tipping his head back and covering his face with his hands. Her foot finds his, sans its stiletto heel, and moves slowly up his calf. “Not now.”

He doesn't push her away and she reclines in her chair, hands now folded on her stomach, watching him.

“How long is your lunch hour?” Her voice has changed tone now, dropped to something low and husky and it _does things_ to him, distracts him in a way he should find irritating but just can't.

“The clue is in the phrase. Lunch _hour_.”

“And how long do you have left?” Her eyebrow is raised and her foot moves higher, past his knee. His jeans feel almost uncomfortably tight and he reaches down to adjust himself, pushing his chair away from the desk.

“Lock the door.”

They're good together, Castiel and Meg. A good match when it comes to sexual chemistry. They're rarely unsatisfied when the other is around. As he straightens his clothing out a while later, fastening the buttons of his shirt and reaching up to try and tame his hair somewhat, he thinks for the millionth time that she deserves to meet a good guy. Someone who can give her more than he can, someone she _wants_ more with.

“Don't you want someone, Cassie?” His cousin has asked him only the other week over coffee at his bakery. “A real someone. Not just a fuck buddy.”

“Meg isn't just a fuck buddy.” Castiel had dipped his cappuccino with a frown, wiping the foam moustache from his top lip. “There's more to it than that.”

“But you're not a couple,” Gabriel had persisted, with that look on his face like a dog with a bone. “She's not your girlfriend. Is she? You need a girlfriend, Cassie. Or a boyfriend. Whichever, I'm not prejudiced. As you know.” He’d wiggled his eyebrows and Castiel had groaned. Gabriel’s past is no secret to him but equally it's something he would rather not spend too much time thinking about.

“I'm fine, Gabriel. Really. But thank you for your concern.”

“I _am_ concerned. It's not an emotion I feel very often, mind you, so I'd appreciate it while it's here. But I worry about you, Castiel. Shut up in your shop with only those dusty old books for company. It'll make you old before your time.” He'd glanced at Castiel’s tweed suit jacket. “If it hasn't already.”

“I have plenty of company.”

“Online forums don't count,” Gabriel had argued, getting up and going behind the counter to make them both another drink. The conversation had continued in a similar vein and they'd got nowhere really. When Castiel had mentioned that Gabriel hadn't given a single shit about him when _he_ was single, his cousin had laughed heartily.

“I didn't have the chance to think about you then, Castiel. I was pretty busy being busy, if you catch my drift. But I'm all settled down with Sam now and my little black heart is melting. It would be nice to see you happy, too.”

Gabriel is rarely sentimental so the statement had floored Castiel for a long moment. He'd brushed it all off but now, now that Meg has left and he's alone in his office again, he can't help but think about what's waiting for him at home tonight after work. A chilly apartment above his shop. Mac and cheese for dinner. Maybe a beer if he feels like it. Cable TV. There _is_ a good documentary on NatGeo later about bumblebee conservation which he'd like to watch. An early night. An empty bed.

His computer pings and he opens an email. It's a reply to a post of his on a forum for gardening enthusiasts. Even though his little apartment doesn't have a garden it does have a narrow fire escape that leads to the roof, and Castiel has quite a collection of plants growing up there that he loves to tend. It's his solace, his second love after his shop. Maybe he can spend an hour up there tonight. His plants make for good company.

It's just a shame they can't talk back.

 

*

 

Somehow, the nights seem to be getting longer and darker the closer they get to spring. Although Dean considers that possibly it’s him who’s feeling darker, chasing nighttime when he can be alone and quiet and not e expected to do anything or say anything or _be_ anything he doesn’t want to be any more. It’s late now, well past midnight, and Amara is asleep in their bedroom. They’d had slow sex that night, her beneath him and whispering filth into his ear as she gripped his hips and directed his movements. He’d taken a long time to come, as he always does these days, struggling to stay focused on the task at hand and not retreat into his mind. He’d kissed her neck and breasts, doing anything he could to stop himself kissing her on the mouth because if he did, he feared she would know how detached he really was during the whole thing. And that fight really isn’t one he wants to get into, not now. She’s made enough jabs at him lately to dent his confidence in his abilities, and a screaming match about their sex life wouldn’t exactly help get them back on track to a happy relationship.

He’s in the master bathroom, deciding to urinate there instead of in the en suite, not wanting to wake Amara. She has a busy day at work tomorrow and he doesn’t want to deal with being snapped at for waking her up and interrupting her sleep. He hasn’t slept at all, in spite of going to bed at nine o’clock and reading for an hour. It usually sends him straight to sleep but not tonight. His dog-eared copy of _Watership Down_ , usually one he can rely on to help him drift off, hadn’t done the trick tonight and he had been lying there for hours, alternating between staring at the ceiling and the closet door.

He needs a break. A decent, long-term break. From what exactly he isn’t sure, but he knows that he’s never felt quite so stressed and so strained as he does at the moment. He’d pissed into the toilet bowl and is now sitting with his back against the bathroom door, knees drawn up and elbows on them, unwilling to go back to bed. His heart is racing and he feels nauseous with anxiety, an emotion he’s become intimately familiar with over the last few months. Next to him, his phone sits with its screen dark, no longer displaying his online banking app. He’d got a text message just before bed, warning him that he’s nearing his overdraft limit on his private account and it had filled him with such panic that he’d deleted the message immediately. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. But it isn’t out of mind, not really. It’s making him ill, worrying about money to this extent. He should maybe do something about it, go and see his bank manager or get a business consultant in to help crunch some numbers at the garage. Maybe he should see a damn doctor. But it feels all too much like admitting defeat, like he’s struggling, and he doesn’t want to be that person. His father had always instilled into him that he should look after his family, his younger brother, his future wife, future children. And Amara’s words from the other night have cut him deeply. He’d always thought of himself a success, had been so proud of the business he’d built from nothing. But now it doesn’t feel like success. It’s like an anchor around his neck, a millstone, and it’s dragging him down into the depths of depression. He’s floundering. Trapped.

He ducks his head down to his chest as his breathing picks up, inhaling deeply to try and calm himself. He needs to get this shit under control. Even Ash had noticed at work yesterday, joking as he’d asked Dean if he’d had a few heavy nights lately because he looked pale and tired. Dean had shot back that he had, that he and Amara had been spending some quality time together, and all the guys in the forecourt had laughed and the conversation from there had devolved into lewd talk about who they’d fucked at the weekend, who was having an affair outside of their marriage, and who had the hottest girlfriend. Dean stayed out of it all, not enjoying the sentiments and knowing just how Amara would react if she could hear them all talk. Knowing how his mother would react. Damn, he misses her. If she were here right now, he’d be able to talk to her about everything that’s on his mind. He’d be able to be honest with her. Mary would help him. So would John, in his own way. As would Sam, Gabe, but he can’t bring himself to approach them, even after their offer at the barbecue. It would feel too much like throwing in the towel. And he isn’t there, not yet.

He tips his head back until it hits the door, appraising their bathroom. He’d proud of this room. He’d done a lot of the work himself, laying the floor tiles and painting the walls. The bath stands in the middle of the room, deep and claw-footed, and the shower is a deep walk-in with a monsoon showerhead. The glass panel is a little loose and he _must_ get around to fixing it. It’s a job for the weekend.

He should go back to bed. Try to sleep it all off. But the likelihood of him falling asleep tonight at all is next to nothing, and there’s a damn good reason for it. If he does sleep, he knows what he’ll succumb to. Dreams of broken glass and crumpled metal. The smell of gasoline, the feel of blood slicking his skin. The car crash. The car crash he barely remembers but his brain has managed to piece together over the years. He’d come away with no lasting injuries beyond a nasty scar along his forearm and another bisecting his thigh, but his uncle hadn’t been so lucky. Bobby had taken the worst of it, the car hitting the tree on the driver’s side, and he’s never walked since. Today is the anniversary of the crash. It had happened when Bobby was driving Dean home, back from his cub scout meeting, and the road had been slick with a sudden rainfall and slippery after too hot a day. They had taken a corner a little too fast, the car hydroplaning, and after that Dean has a long blank space until he woke up in hospital hours later. He remembers it now in fragments that only show themselves in his nightmares, fading to shadow and smoke when he wakes. The scar on his arm doesn’t hurt any more, and he thumbs over it absently. He thinks of Bobby. Of his parents. Of everything he’s lost in his life and everything he’s been left with, of how precious and delicate human life is and how he could have lost his in a moment had the car crash happened any differently.

“Dean?” Amara knocks softly on the bathroom door, making him start with shock. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he manages, the sound coming out weak and cracked. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Let me in?”

He unlocks the door and scoots to the side, letting her push it open and squeeze in to sit down next to him on the floor. She doesn’t turn on the light and he’s thankful for that. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder and she strokes his bare thigh.

“Don’t think about the crash,” she says and he nods, a little surprised she’s even remembered. “Everything’s okay now. You’re fine.”

“Bobby isn’t,” he murmurs, allowing the guilt to crash over him like a wave breaking on the sands. Amara shakes her head.

“He’s dealt with it all. He’s adapted. It’s okay now, Dean. You’re both safe. You don’t need to worry about it all the time.”

She doesn’t understand. He can’t control the dreams, the nightmares that plague him. But he’s tired of trying to make her understand. So he just nods, shifting to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close, feeling nothing at all as her warm skin presses against his. She's wonderful, he thinks. She's stayed with him in spite of the nightmares and the memories. He strokes her hair, pressing his face into it and inhaling her sweet smell. He loves her. In spite of it all, he loves her. They can work things out. Somehow.

He loves her. But he isn't in love with her. But that's going to be enough. It has to be.

They sit there for a long time, until eventually Amara stirs and pulls him to his feet, walking them both back to bed. She falls asleep immediately, curled in his arms, and he lies awake for the rest of the night watching the red liquid numbers on his alarm clock shift from one to the next.

 

*

 

That evening after work, Castiel goes to the gym to activate his pass. He has to swing by the mall on his way to pick up a couple of things since he can't lay his hands on all of his gym kit. ‘A couple of things’ winds up being shorts, sweatpants, three t-shirts, sport socks and a pair of brand new Nikes. And a bag to put it all in. He's far too susceptible to the sales latter of assistants and he grumbles all the way back to his car.

The gym is brightly lit and everyone around him has firm, toned bodies and brightly-coloured clothing. Even the staff behind the desk, but he supposed they should embody the establishment they work in. Much like he does with his glasses and tweed jacket and - damn, he flushes as he realises he forgot to take it off - his bow tie. It garners him a mildly entertained smile from the woman at the desk as he approaches, brand new bag slung over his shoulder. Her name tag reads ‘My name is Bela - ask me for advice!’

“Hi!” Her voice is crisp and sweet, British, and she stands up to greet him as he approaches. “Do you need directions to the changing rooms?”

She isn't laughing him out of the building so that's a good start. He fumbles in his jeans pocket for the folded voucher that he'd picked up on his way to the mall, and slides it across to her.

“I won this. In a raffle. I should probably use it. I was thinking of joining a gym again.” He can form complex sentences right now, he's too nervous and feels completely out of his depth. Bela seems to sense this and her hand closes over his before he can retract it.

“Don't worry. Newbie nerves are completely normal. I'll just get you signed up, show you around, then you can explore the place by yourself. Have you been a member of a gym before?”

She helps him fill in a few forms, checking one box on the health form, then she chaperones him up a sweeping flight of glass stairs overlooking an Olympic-length pool. He tries to keep his awe from showing as she walks him around the state-of-the-art equipment, pointing out the stairs to the sauna, steam room, and sports massage suites. He doesn't want to think about how much a membership to this place must cost. He can't imagine coming here regularly, parting with his own money voluntarily just to keep the card in his wallet. The city gym down the road from his apartment is just fine. The treadmills are all in use by slim women with swinging ponytails and expensive headphones, and the weight section seems dominated by a group of men in a variety of shapes and sizes, working on different parts of their bodies. He swallows hard. He's going to be totally out of place here. In fact, he's dreading having to actually work out here. He should have gifted the voucher to someone else. Maybe Gabriel. His boyfriend is pretty into the gym, he should have passed it on with his compliments. Rookie error. But he trails after Bela obediently, feeling more and more unfit as he passes by the other members.

When she's done with the tour, she herds him towards the changing rooms in spite of his muttered protests that he might come back another day.

“No time like the present!” She smiles at him. “Just gran someone if you need a hand with any of the machines. And have fun!”

Then she's gone, and Castiel finds himself watching her Lycra-clad body walk away. Trying valiantly to drum up some confidence, he draws himself up to his full height, hitches his bag higher on his shoulder, and pushes the door to the changing rooms open. He can do this. It's just the gym.

Half an hour later, Castiel is pretty convinced that he, in fact, cannot do this. He's hot, sweaty, his clothes are sticking to him unpleasantly in places they shouldn't, and he's wishing he'd picked up a water bottle at the mall. He's sitting at a weights machine that purports to do something to his triceps, and he can't bring himself to actually use it. His arms ache, his thighs ache, his abs ache, and his head aches. He's so done with this pathetic attempt at a workout, but if he leaves now he’ll make a fool of himself in front of Bela. He keeps peering down the stairs to see if she's left the desk yet, leaving the coast clear for him to make a hasty retreat, but she seems permanently glued there. He's trapped here for the length of a half-decent workout.

So he works out. As best he can. Five minutes on the treadmill, ten on the cross trainer. Twelve doing stretches that don't feel like they're stretching anything at all beyond the seams of his clothing. Lifts some weights, then lifts some lighter ones when his shoulder threatens him with popping out of its socket. Considers a personal trainer at some point in the future then reconsiders it when he notices how preppy and hyperactive they all are. He doesn't need that kind of energy in his life. His life is fine without someone jumping into his personal space and talking, at length, about the state of his abs.

“Hey, are you using this machine?”

A voice drifts from somewhere above him, deep and masculine with a mild note of irritations running through it, and Castiel peers up at whoever it is, wondering whether to tell him to get lost or ask for his help standing up. The fluorescent strip lights are in his eyes and a bead of sweat chooses that moment to track down from his eyebrow and momentarily blind him. When he's rubbed it away and focused, a pair of deep green eyes are staring down at him, narrowed in curiosity. Castiel blinks again, shifting back a little to take in the stranger standing over him. Dirty blonde hair darkened with sweat, cheekbones and jawline that could cut glass, and a confused frown. The guy is generically hot, probably much hotter when his t-shirt doesn't have sweat stains under the arms, but Castiel is struck with an instant and strong sense of dislike. It takes his brain a moment to catch up, but when he does he finds himself standing up and taking a step back, putting some distance between them.

It's the guy from the charity event. The guy on the arm of the woman who had insulted both him and Meg, who had stood by and said nothing. Had probably shared his wife's sentiments. So, in other words, an asshole. And Castiel is not in the mood for assholes, in any sense of the word. Even when they come in such a pretty package.

“No,” he says tightly, swiping his towel up from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. “I'm not. It's all yours.”

“Hey, do we know each other?”

Castiel has turned his back, but the guy’s curious question makes him glance over his shoulder, incredulous.

“Are you kidding?”

“Huh?” The guy’s brow furrows a little more and Castiel takes a moment to appraise him, head to foot. Grey v-necked t-shirt, sweaty, charcoal sweatpants, also sweaty, beaten up sneakers that were probably expensive once. Towel around his neck. Objectively fit, with a fine layer of muscle covering his body and just a little softness at his stomach and hips. Not dissimilar to Castiel himself, and the thought makes him feel a little better. Then worse as he realises he's staring.

“We've met,” he says coolly. “But I'm not surprised you don't remember. Guys like you don't tend to remember people like me.”

“People like you?” The guy seems genuinely shocked by Castiel’s tone. “What the hell do you mean? And - wait - ‘guys like me’? What the hell, dude?”

“Never mind. Enjoy your workout.” Castiel turns on his heel and heads for the stairs, feeling the piercing state of green eyes all the way across the room. He stops at the water fountain then jogs downstairs, reenergised by his sudden anger at the man for approaching him like that. For behaving the way he did at the party. For it being such a non-event to him that he doesn't even remember it. He probably acts like that to everyone, so much so that it doesn't even register as bad behaviour.

He clatters down the stairs, lost in thought, and heads for the changing rooms, pulling his shower gel and shampoo out of his bag so roughly that he drops both on the floor. Rolling his eyes in irritation, he picks them up and shucks out of his clothes quickly. Any pleasure he'd taken in his workout - however thin - has entirely dissipated now and all he wants is to head home. His shower is quick, perfunctory, and when he emerges his hair is slicked back and his towel is wrapped firmly around his waist. He's feeling a little more settled, still annoyed, simultaneously frustrated with himself for not saying more to the asshole upstairs, but better than he had been. Then, back at his locker, he sees him.

Across the changing rooms, in a corner, the guy is punching in his locker code and rifling through his things, unaware of Castiel’s eyes on him. He's shirtless now, the damp t-shirt in a puddle at his feet, and Castiel has a clear view of his back and side. He can't help but stare. The guy has deep scratches down his left side in two patches, red streaks running below his ribs then again just above his waistband, disappearing below his clothing. Castiel knows those scratches. He's _felt_ those scratches. Delivered in passion during a night of endless fun with Meg, he'd come away feeling like a scratching post in the presence of a particularly animated cat. But he'd never once gone to the _gym_ with such marks, displaying them in such a vulgar way. It makes him dislike the guy even more, and he turns away in disgust. For all the ways Castiel can be liberal in the bedroom, he can also be quite a prude and he knows it.

The guy glances up as he walks past, out of the changing rooms, and looks like he's about to say something but Castiel ignores him completely. Whatever he has to say, it isn't of any interest.

He climbs into his car, a faithful Continental that Meg always complains isn't classy enough for her, and starts the engine. The day is warm, springtime come early, and he rolls the window down. There's a car parked a little too close to him on his passenger side and it takes him a few manoeuvres before he's free of the space. The car is oversized, a black muscle car with silver mirrors that shine in the sunlight, and Castiel rolls his eyes at it as he drives away. Whoever drives that thing is probably trying to overcompensate for something. Smirking a little at his childish thoughts, he heads for home and doesn't pay the gym, the pretty girl at the welcome desk, or the asshole guy at the weights machine a second thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long! I have an eye ulcer which means writing has been a bit difficult. All on the mend now.
> 
> Also thank you to my lovely beta **tricia_16** for working with me on this story!

“Shit, fuck, motherfucking dammit!” Dean climbs into the Impala in a rush, banging his elbow on the doorframe and dropping his keys into the footwell. “ _ Shit _ !”

He's an idiot. No, he's not an idiot, he's an asshole.  A giant, idiotic asshole. What kind of person forgets their brother’s birthday? Thank God for Gabriel and his ridiculously chirpy phone call at some ungodly hour this morning. 

“Dean-o!” he’d sing-songed down the line. “I hope I didn't wake you!”

“No, I was already up.” It was true. Dean had been sitting at his kitchen table, nursing another espresso, the unfortunate loser in his battle with insomnia once again. “What's up?”

“I'm just making sure you and your fair lady are attending tonight.” In the background, the clink and clank of baking utensils almost drowned out his words. At Dean’s perplexed silence, Gabriel continued, “Sam’s birthday dinner? The Roadhouse? Tonight?”

Dean had gone cold all over, struck with a sudden bolt of panic. Shit.  _ Shit _ . He'd forgotten that today is Sam’s birthday. He'd forgotten about The Roadhouse. He'd forgotten about it all and now he feels like the worst brother on the face of the planet. He'd mumbled something unintelligent to Gabriel and promised they'd be there tonight, then hung up and sent Sam an over enthusiastic birthday text message. He'd been twitchy and distracted at work all morning since, berating himself for his forgetfulness, and even Benny, his old friend and colleague, has noticed and queried what was wrong. Unfortunately, his query had come with a friendly pat on the shoulder right where a bruise is blossoming from contact with the doorframe yesterday and he'd hissed and flinched away. Benny’s blue eyes had darkened in concern and Dean made something up quickly about catching himself while working beneath a car. It had seemed to satisfy the older man but Dean had caught his furtive looks for the rest of the morning. 

Now, he's heading into the city to try and find a present for Sam. Something.  _ Anything _ . His brain is working overtime in an attempt to think up a good present. Something for the house? But what? Something for the garden? But  _ what _ ? A shovel? No, he muses, if he got Sam a shovel for his birthday he'd likely use it to bury Dean under the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. He casts about miserably as he drives, berating himself for being so useless, then he passes a  _ Barnes and Noble _ and it clicks. A book, of course. Why wasn't that the first thing that came to mind? But he can't just turn up with any old book, it has to be something special. Something personal. 

Then he has an idea, and pulls over to the curb to check his phone for something. Putting the address into Google maps, he drives a little out of town and squints through the windshield against the sun until he spots what he's looking for. Yes. That place should do nicely. It's a rare bookshop tucked away down a little street with plenty of other vintage-type shops and he finds a parking spot hurriedly, almost tripping over himself in his haste. The hand-painted sign above the door reads Novak’s, nothing more. 

“Imaginative,” Dean mutters to himself as he jogs across the street and heads for the door. 

A little bell tinkles above the door as he pushes it open and he feels like he’s taken an instant step back into the past. As soon as he walks into the shop he can tell he’s out of his depth. Every wall is filled with books, floor to ceiling, and double-sided bookshelves create aisles off to the right, again stacked high with leather- and fabric-bound books. Some sit behind glass cases that reflect the light and others are wrapped in plastic. The air smells thick, dusty, old. He half expects to find some little old man behind the counter who looks like he hasn’t left the place in the last millennia. But there’s nobody behind the counter - the shop is deserted. He blinks in confusion. Perhaps he’s in the wrong place. This doesn’t really look like the kind of shop that would sell the book he’s looking for. He turns to leave, but as soon as his hand touches the doorknob there’s a voice from behind him.

“Can I help you?”

He turns back, and as if by magic a young woman has materialised and is leaning her hip against the counter with her arms folded. She looks vaguely familiar but he doesn’t have time to think about it right now.

“Yes, actually. I’m looking for a book.” The words are out of his mouth before he realises just how idiotic they sound.

“Well, I’m not sure I can help with that.” She looks up to the top of one of the towering shelves, her voice thick with sarcasm. “It’s not something we generally stock.”

“Yeah, okay.”  _ Smartass _ . He doesn’t have time for this. He has less than a half hour left to secure a present for Sam, grab something to eat and get back to the garage. “I'm looking for this,” he brings up an image on his phone and approaches the woman with his hand outstretched. She doesn't move to take it or to move any closer; she seems to be regarding him with something of a sardonic expression. “Do you have it?”

He's snapping at her, he knows he is, ut he's too damn stressed out for this. He needs to find this book and get going, or else find somewhere that does stock it. After a long, pregnant pause, the woman finally unfoldes her arms and moves away from the counter, frowning in consternation. 

“Castiel isn't here right now, he ran out to get coffee,” she says and Dean grits his teeth so he doesn't say how he doesn't  _ care _ who Castiel is, just tell him if they have the goddamn book. “But let me check for you. I think we have that somewhere around.”

It seems to take an inordinate amount of time to locate the book and Dean almost walks out empty-handed multiple times just out of frustration. The blonde vanishes into a back office and reappears with nothing. She climbs a couple of small wooden ladders to peer at titles on the very top shelves while tapping her lip in a way that seems almost over-exaggerated. She types something into the ancient computer that sits gathering dust on the counter. Then, when Dean is beginning to walk backwards towards the door, biting his tongue in frustrated ire, she stands straight as though a lightbulb has gone off above her head and says, ‘Oh  _ I _ know!’ before returning moments later with the exact title and edition Dean had asked for, plucked from such a precise place on a shelf that Dean narrows his eyes in suspicion. She knew where it was all along. 

But instead of creating a fuss, he pays and leaves the shop, grumbling quietly to himself and checking the time on his Apple Watch - a stupidly high-tech gadget that Amara talked him into buying and he hasn't got a damn clue how to work the thing. He can barely get it to tell him the time of day, and isn't that supposed to be the primary function of a watch? Perhaps he's getting old. Back in the safety of the car, he realises he should probably remind Amara about the plans tonight. If he'd forgotten, she definitely will have. 

_ Party tonight _ , he types.  _ Sam’s birthday at The Roadhouse. I’ll swing by and pick you up on the way?  _

He’ll have to go straight from work, but that’ll be okay. Sam won’t mind if he isn’t in his best jeans, and he always keeps a change of t-shirt in the trunk. He might smell like motor oil, but it’s only The Roadhouse. Almost everybody in there smells of motor oil. 

_ The Roadhouse?  _ She replies almost immediately and he can her the condescension in her tone even through the text. He grits his teeth. He knows she doesn’t like it there, thinks it’s beneath her, but tonight isn’t about her. It isn’t her birthday.  _ You Winchesters have truly terrible taste. Fine, I’ll see you later. _

He bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Why does she have to say things like that? Why can’t she just say yes to the invitation, tell him she’s looking forward to it, and have fun when they get there? But he already knows she won’t. She’ll appear dressed in something wildly unsuitable for burgers and beer at The Roadhouse and spend the evening looking around her like the air itself carries cooties, picking napkins up by her fingernails and sitting on the very edge of the chairs. He cringes already at the image of it all. It’s not even three o’clock yet but he’s suddenly desperate for a drink. So desperate that it makes his mouth run dry and his heart rate pick up. But no, he can't stop in and pick up a six-pack on the way back to work. That would be wholly unprofessional. So instead he throws the Impala into gear and heads back to the shop, all thoughts of the bookshop and the blonde woman left in the dust. 

“You're late, boss!” Benny smirks at him as he crashes his way into the office, knowing he has a face like thunder but not caring enough to do anything about it. 

“Shut it, Lafitte, before I have to put out an ad for your job.” Dean collapses into his rickety old office chair, the one that constantly threatens to give way beneath him, and massages his temples. Only a few more hours left before he can crawl into bed and sleep off the stress of the day. And only a few hours less than that before he can relax with a beer in hand. Not that he's counting. 

“Someone's birthday?” Benny leans against the doorframe with his arms folded, overalls shrugged off his shoulders and tied around his waist. There's a dark smear of grease cutting across his forehead. He's eyeing the package on Dean’s desk with interest. “Or a late Valentine for Amara?”

“No, definitely not. And if I forgot Valentine’s Day, do you think I'd be sitting here talking to you?” Dean smirks but the words are colder than he meant them to be. He did forget, once. That was a painful evening. “Sam’s birthday. Thought I'd wait until the last possible second to get him a gift just to give myself that adrenaline rush of panic, you know? Keeps me on my toes.”

“Sends you to an early grave, more like,” Benny says, eyeing him closely. “You look stressed, chief. You need a vacation.”

Dean groans, remembering the drama that had occurred at Sam and Gabriel’s place at just the mere mention of the topic. “Don't you dare say that word around Amara. She'll bankrupt me just for a natural suntan.”

“Maybe she's got a point. Those dark circles aren't doing anything for you Dean, I gotta tell ya. Relax a little. Let me and Ash take some of the strain.”

“I guess I could.” Dean considers it. “Thanks, Benny. You're a good friend.”

“Yeah yeah, put it in the pay check.”

Benny’s laugh follows him as he walks away and Dean stares after him, feeling drained. He knows he looks tired, but he didn't know it was visible to other people. So visible, in fact, that Benny commented directly about it. Benny never comments on anyone's appearance, ever. He's not catty like Ash can be, or like Adam certainly was, but he's also not a shy little wallflower like Jack. If something is important enough to mention, Benny will mention it. He sighs, leaning over to switch on his PC. Maybe a vacation would be a good idea. He can look into a cheap break away for them both later. Tomorrow, maybe. But for now, he's got a pile bills on his desk that need paying and if he doesn't want the debt collectors hammering on his door he'd better get down to it.

 

*

 

They’re late. They’re  _ so _ late that it’s beyond excusable. It’s antisocial. It’s just plain rude. And Dean is fuming, sitting there in the Impala with the engine running, waiting for Amara to come out of the house. He’s been waiting for ten minutes now. He’d arrived almost an hour ago, hoping she would be ready, and had gone inside to find her fresh out of the shower with wet hair and an irritable expression at Dean’s wide-eyed stare. She’d snapped at him to wait in the car for her, which he’d done, but now he’s been in and out three times and she’s still not ready. He’s sent Sam three text messages, rejected two calls from Gabriel, and is currently considering not going at all.

Eventually, when she slides into the passenger seat in a cloud of perfume with her hair perfectly curled and her makeup immaculate, he manages to grunt out a compliment then pulls away from the curb so fast that the tyres squeal on the pavement beneath them. He seethes the entire journey there and she messes with her lipstick in a compact, turns the radio onto some God-awful manufactured pop station, and ignores him as though he’s her cab driver.

“I got Sam a book,” he says eventually as they pull up outside The Roadhouse. The place is lit up cheerfully and the parking lot is already pretty full. Music can be heard through the open car windows and he should be in a fantastic mood, ready for an evening with his brother. But instead all he wants to do is go home and crawl under his blankets and stay there. “A first-edition copy of  _ The Velveteen Rabbit _ . It was his favourite book as a child.”

She’s already halfway out of the car, ignoring him. Her high heels crunch on the gravel and she grips his arm for stability as they walk in, but they don’t speak. The atmosphere between them is colder than liquid nitrogen and Dean is sure it’s showing on both their faces, which isn’t fair. They shouldn’t be turning up to Sam’s birthday an hour late looking as though they’ve had a huge fight. But before he can paste on a happy, chilled expression, Gabriel is on his feet at a nearby table, waving them over. Next to him, Amara sniffs in distaste, taking in the pool table and the biker guys who prop up the bar, and vibes of ‘this place isn’t good enough for me’ are flowing off her like water. But she shakes back her hair, plucks Sam’s present from Dean’s hands, and crosses the room with him in tow.

And right there, sitting next to Gabriel with a sour expression on his face as he looks Dean up and down, is the guy from the gym. The asshole who had snapped at him on the weights machine and thrown some cryptic comment at him before walking away. His blood pressure seems to rise instantly at the sight of him, irritation setting his teeth on edge, and he’s stiff and awkward as he pulls out a chair for Amara. Next to the guy is - and Dean blinks in shock at this - the blonde girl from the bookshop. He feels like he’s walked into some parallel universe. 

The blonde sends him a scathing look, then turns to the guy next to her and whispers something in his ear, covering her mouth with her hand as she does so as if they’re in middle school. A smirk tugs at the guy’s lips in response and his eyes flash to Dean then away. Then they both laugh quietly together. The bar suddenly seems louder and warmer than it did five seconds before, and Dean’s struck with the sudden desperate need to leave. Amara, at his side, is giving the pair a scathing glare then turning to Sam with her hand outstretched. Her nails, which were red this morning, now glint a sleek black. She’s clearly spent her day being pampered as per usual, Dean thinks sourly. Across the table, the blonde woman snorts a laugh, a harsh sound, her head tipped back and causing Amara to shoot her an acidic glare. Gabriel stands to greet them both and Sam just sits there, eyes on the glass in front of him, a meek expression on his face, and says absolutely nothing.

_ Great. Just. Fucking. Great. _

 

*

 

“I’ve never known Dean to drink like this,” Gabriel says with a frown and Sam follows his gaze to where Dean is sitting on a bar stool, leaning on his elbows with his head dropped, waiting as Jo fetches yet another beer from the refrigerator. Two shot glasses filled with a worrying amber liquid are already there, and as they both watch Dean knocks one back as though it’s water. He scoops up the second along with his beer and ambles back over to their table, a slight sway in his already bow-legged gait. Some of the amber liquid sloshes over the edge of the glass onto the already sticky floor. He deposits it on the table in front of Sam with a beam, eyes reddened from the alcohol and his smile somewhat glazed. Pasted on. Sam notices him glance at Amara, probably intending it to be a fleeting glance but instead it lingers and something cold crosses Dean’s face before it’s chased away with yet another forced smile.

“Bottoms up, birthday boy!” Dean raises his beer bottle in a toast and Sam smiles wanly, picking up the shot glass and drinking it down in one mouthful, coughing as the acidic liquid burns his throat. Tequila. And not the good kind.

“Th-thanks!” he manages to spit out as Gabriel pounds him on the back.

“No problem.” Dean sits down heavily on his chair, the legs screeching beneath him, and across the table Sam catches sight of Castiel and Meg watching the spectacle in silence. Neither seems remotely impressed; Castiel looks a little taken aback while Meg looks downright scathing. 

“Can't handle your drink, Winchester?” She says in a syrupy voice, leaning forward to address him directly. “Maybe it's time you took yourself home to bed before you embarrass yourself.”

“I don't think  _ you _ need to worry about that,” Amara cuts in smoothly from her seat beside Dean. She's got her legs crossed primly and is still working on her first glass of wine, taking such delicate sips that Sam’s surprised the drink has diminished at all. Her dark eyes are cold as she stares back at Meg, who fires up at once. 

“What exactly does  _ that _ mean?” She leans forward, her blonde curls tumbling from where she'd tucked them behind her ear. Beside her, Castiel flinches, clearly uncomfortable with the brewing confrontation. The evening has been tense so far, with Castiel and Meg keeping to themselves, Dean being over-enthusiastic and clearly trying too hard to make sure Sam has a good evening, and Amara barely saying a word to anyone. Gabriel has swung between equally enthused and strangely quiet, and Sam? Quite frankly, Sam can't wait for the whole thing to be over. Especially now, as it appears like a verbal tennis match is about to break out between the two women. 

“It really doesn't matter.” Amara shakes her hair back with a delicate, glittery laugh. “But since you don't seem to understand English, I mean that Dean might be embarrassment right now, but not all of us need the addition of alcohol to reach that achievement.” Her eyes drift scathingly down to Meg’s thrift-store shirt and necklace. “I suppose we aren't all from the deep end of the gene pool.”

At once, Meg gets to her feet with her eyes blazing and cheeks red-tinted. Castiel puts a hand on her arm to try and calm her but she shakes him off. 

“Now listen here, you sanctimonious little  _ bitch- _ ”

“You know what?” Dean begins and he turns to address Amara, clearly in an attempt to calm the situation. But in his inebriated state he leans in too far and two things happen simultaneously: he knocks into the table, causing two beer bottles and a glass of rum and coke to get instantly upended, the contents spilling dramatically and continuing to spread in a flood towards the table edges. With his gesturing hand, he hits Amara’s arm by mistake, the one holding the glass of red wine. She's wearing a white shift dress and, in slow motion, the wine splatters across her front like a bloodstain. There's a pause, a long one, and Sam and Castiel try vaguely to mop up some of the mess while Meg just stares, her expression split between gleeful and horrified. Then she starts to laugh, quietly at first until she's snorting behind her hand in hysterics. Gabriel is silent, just staring. And Dean? 

“Shit. Ah, shit.” He staggers to his feet drunkenly, the tequila shot clearly taking effect, and his chair falls over behind him with a bang. More and more people in the bar are turning to stare at them and Sam spies Jo at the bar, a glass tilted beneath the bar tap but motionless, just watching. “Babe, I'm sorry. Damn, I'm such an idiot. Here, let me…”

He casts about, red-eyed, for a towel of some sort but Amara gets there first. She stands up so sharply that droplets of wine from her dress sprinkle the table, and she turns to Dean with fire in her eyes. 

“I'm leaving. Call me a cab.” Her hand grips his wrist and pulls him in the direction of the door. “You're not staying here in this state.”

“I am too!” Dean’s indignant response comes out as a shout and Sam cringes. 

Beside him, Gabriel grips the edge of the table. Castiel murmurs, ‘Oh dear.’ 

“S’Sammy’s birthday. I'm staying to celebrate!”

“Dean. Call a cab. We're going.” Amara’s voice is like ice and, to be fair, Sam can understand why she's annoyed. But as his gaze drops, he sees Amara gripping Dean’s wrist and his brow lowers into a frown. Her fingernails are digging into his skin, leaving white half-moons. He's clearly so drunk he doesn't even notice as he pulls against her hold. 

“Dean,” Sam says, straightening up and stepping out from his side of the table towards his brother. “It's fine, you can go. We’re almost finished here anyway, and we've had a great time.” He hopes his smile is genuine. “So it's cool. Unless you want to come home with Gabe and me…”

It's an out. It's an open door in case Dean’s heading home to an argument - which, all things considered, he probably is. Dean turns dark eyes on him and he can see the cogs turning in his brother’s head. But then he turns back to Amara and seems to give in, nodding to her and stepping towards the door. Her hold on him seems to loosen slightly and Dean gives Sam a wan smile. 

“Nah, it's fine. Should go,” he slurs and aims a wave at Gabriel. “Thanks for an evening. A great day. S’been fun.”

Then he's gone, trailing in Amara’s wake as she stalks out without even saying goodbye. The silence around the table grows thicker by the second until Gabriel exhales loudly and sits back in his chair.    
“Well. That was eventful!”

They stay for another hour, maybe a little longer, but Sam is distracted. He keeps picturing Amara’s nails digging into his brother’s skin and the venom in her tone as she'd addressed him. The flash of… something that had crossed Dean’s face when he realised what he'd done. It's concerning, increasingly so. He knows they aren't happy. But it seems deeper than that, and even though heartfelt conversations don't seem to be a Winchester special these days, it's probably time they had one.    
They say goodbye to Cas and Meg, who have grown increasingly handsy over the last hour, and Castiel pulls him into a one-armed hug. 

“I hope your brother is okay,” he says with an element of sobriety in his voice. “I think he's in the doghouse.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Sam manages a smile. “See you, Cas. Thanks for coming.”

In the car, Gabriel skips from one radio station to another, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He'd stopped drinking after Dean’s mishap - and since half his drink had ended up coating the surface of the table he’d decided to drive instead of wasting money on a cab. The windows are down and the warm summer air winds it's way into the car as Sam leans back in his seat and watches the city lights go by. As they pull up outside their house, Gabriel cuts the engine and turns to him. 

“So when are you going to talk to Dean-o? Because that's a problem that ain't going away on his own.”

“Amara? Or the drinking?” Sam isn't sure he wants to hear the answer, especially when Gabriel shakes his head. 

“Both. One follows the other, probably. But it's time for an intervention, Samwise. Us Winchesters have to stick together.”

“You're not a Winchester,” Sam laughs, reaching for the door release. Behind him Gabriel laughs and slaps him genially on the arm. 

“Not yet I'm not. I have to convince you to marry me first.”

Then he's gone, out of the car and walking up to the house, and Sam stares after him with a thrill of excited adoration gripping his heart and making him grin like an utter idiot.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes Dean a while to wake up the next morning. Or rather, to wake up properly. 

The first time he cracks open his eyes, he's asleep on the couch downstairs and the pungent smell of vomit makes him want to hurl again. The bright morning light sears his corneas and he clamps his eyes closed again, groaning at the displeasure of being alive. 

The second time, he's in a heap on the bathroom floor with no memory of dragging himself there. His head is pounding, there's a foul taste in his mouth, and his chin is crusted with bile and saliva. He can smell a thick mixture of sweat and vomit and the horrid combination makes him tear up and puke into the shower stall a few feet away. Fuck.  _ Fuck _ . This can't just be a hangover. He must be dying. The back of his head throbs and his mouth feels tender and sore but he can't face standing up to look in the mirror. He lies back down on the cool tiles, the sound of music reaching him through the closed door, and his eyes flutter closed again. 

An hour or two later, he wakes up in bed with a dull memory of stumbling there and collapsing naked on top of the sheets. The house is quiet and still, and he manages to sit up enough to reach over and open the window to air the place out. He reeks. The mere movement of extending his arm to reach the latch makes him wrinkle his nose in distaste at the smell of stale sweat that rises from his armpit. He's too hot, his skin warm and clammy, and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. This is the hangover from hell and there ain’t nobody coming to drag him out. He groans, pushing himself up onto an elbow, and surveys the carnage of the bedroom. Clothes everywhere. The bedding is half on the floor. The closet doors are hanging open. It takes a while but he manages to summon up the energy to get himself out of bed and to stagger back to the bathroom. It’s a mess too, a different kind of a mess, and he has to clean it up before he can start on himself.

He showers for the longest time ever. Standing under the hot water, he allows himself to begin recalling the night before. The embarrassment in the bar of knocking all those drinks over. Sam looks mortified at his behaviour. Castiel and that girl Meg, laughing at him. Jo, behind the bar, cutting him off after that last shot of tequila which wasn’t even for him. Amara. Always, always, Amara. There in the background until she’s right in his face and they’re yelling. Their nights out together always end like that these days. 

He pulls on some clean jeans and a t-shirt, towels off his wet hair, and throws open every window he can find to cleanse the place of the smell of bile and sweat. He feels marginally better. Amara clearly isn’t here or she would have materialised by now to berate his hungover state. He checks his phone but finds only a message from Sam checking in. He types out a perfunctory response and turns the device off, tossing it onto the now-stripped bed. He’ll call Sam later and apologise when he feels like he can string more than two words together.

Downstairs, his memory finally clears as he takes in the state of the kitchen. There’s broken glass on the floor. Wine glasses upturned and filthy on the countertop from their pathetic attempt at sorting it all out in a civilised way. Blinds still drawn closed. Marks on the wall. Shit. 

He and Amara had fought. Badly. She had shouted and screamed at him and he had slurred disjoined, unsatisfactory responses until she’d snapped and hurled a glass at his head. It had missed him or he had ducked, and instead, it had shattered against the wall. He’s now looking at the remains of it and resigns himself to clean-up duty. There’s a smear of blood on the wall too and he frowns, memory hazy before the image of him touching his own bloody lip then stumbling into the wall surfaces and he grimaces, mortified. He let this happen. He let her do this. He didn’t stand up for himself. But what could he do? He always swore he would never hit a woman and that hasn’t changed. No matter how much Amara berates him or screams at him or gets physical with him, he can’t ever bring himself to hurt her and never will. He’s the man in the relationship. It’s his job to just put up and shut up. He sighs at the monumental swell of misery that rears inside him, then shakes his head.  _ Man up, Dean. C’mon. _

Two aspirin and a bottle of water later and he’s finally feeling closer to human. He cleans up the glass, then makes himself some French toast with bacon and maple syrup and that seems to do the job. The idea of Amara’s face if she saw the amount of syrup he’d drizzled on makes him add even more. He needs sugar and carbs to get through this day. He doesn’t even know where the hell she is but it’s better that they aren’t in the same building. He doesn’t want to fight any more, but he doesn’t want to make up either. Something feels broken between them and he needs space until he figures out how to fix it. Or, indeed, if it can be fixed at all.

He finishes up his late lunch and ponders where he can go to spend the rest of the day. He can’t go to work. He’s too hungover and the garage is closed today. He won’t get anything done that’s worth doing. He’d just wind up hiding in his office. They need to buy groceries but he can’t face the idea of a busy store. Then the idea comes to him: the gym. He can do a short workout then veg out in the sauna and steam room, sweat out the after-effects of all that beer and tequila. His stomach churns at the mere memory. He pushes back from the table, drops his plate in the sink with a clatter, snags his gym bag and heads for the car.

His workout has to be the shortest in history. A quick ten-minute jog followed by a few sets at the weights bench and he’s done. Below him, the rippling blue water of the pool is calling to him and his skin burns with the need to immerse himself in it. Then his eye catches the jacuzzi tub in the far corner and his decision is cemented. He hot-foots it downstairs to change, garnering a few strange looks for his haste but he ignores them all. He needs in that water like, yesterday.

Minutes later he pads across the tiles, head pounding, and approaches the jacuzzi. There are two women in there talking to each other, and a dark-haired guy with his back to Dean. He'd prefer to have it to himself but whatever. All he wants to do is submerge himself in the hot water, close his eyes and just drift for a while. Forget about everything that's bothering him. Forget about last night. About Amara. Just  _ forget _ . 

He doesn't spare a glance for the other people as he descends the steps and takes a seat in the corner of the jacuzzi, settling himself and tipping his head back with a barely-audible sigh of contentment. This is  _ just _ what he needs. Around him, the low chatter of other people around the pool area blends into a pleasant white noise and he zones out for a while, letting the jets work their magic on his aching muscles. His latent headache seems to abate. He can almost forget about last night entirely. He can relax, properly, for the first time in what feels like months.

Until, moments later, he can’t.

“Well, this is the last place I expected to see you.” A sardonic voice, deep and husky, breaks into his daydreams and he stiffens, cracking open an eye in irritation.  _ Who _ is disturbing him? And to his horror, staring back at him from the opposite side of the jacuzzi, looking unfairly attractive with his damp hair sticking up and the muscles of his shoulders bunched up as he reclines back in the water, is the very last person on Earth that Dean wants to see right now. The universe is, quite clearly, fucking with him. 

“Oh god,” he murmurs, closing his eyes again. “I'm dreaming. This isn't real. You're not sitting right over there. I'm gonna open my eyes again and you'll be gone.”

It doesn't work. Castiel’s expression has changed from scathing to mild amusement now and Dean isn't sure which is worse. He hunches down in the water, suddenly feeling horribly exposed in only his swim shorts. To make matters worse, the two women have vanished, must have left while he was dozing, and it's just him and Castiel in the jacuzzi now. He wants to leave more than anything but the fucker is sitting right by the steps and he doesn't trust his shaky legs to carry him back to the changing rooms without some (further) form of embarrassment occurring. So he's essentially stuck here. With this guy who he's sure dislikes him for some reason but he can't quite work out why. 

“If I’d drunk half the bar last night I think I'd be curled up in bed rather than facing the gym,” Castiel says conversationally, causing Dean’s attention to refocus on him. The reflection of the water is making his eyes look ethereally blue and in his still-partially-inebriated state, he winds up staring for a moment. 

“Well, we can’t all be over-achievers.” He mutters, burning with embarrassment at how badly-behaved he was last night. How much did Castiel see? What did he say? Why can't he remember the finer details, dammit? 

“I wouldn't consider alcoholism to be much of an achievement.” It's said with such acid that Dean blinks at Castiel a couple of times to make sure he didn't hallucinate the words. Then, instantly, his hackles are up. 

“I'm not an alcoholic,” he growls. “So I had too much of a good time last night, what's it to you?”

“It's nothing to me,” Castiel says in response, shifting and stretching one arm out to the side as he settles back against the jacuzzi wall. It's irritating as fuck that he looks so effortlessly good while Dean feels like he could slither under a rock, plus what the fuck? Where does this guy get off telling him he thinks he's a damn alcoholic? Dean’s chest tightens with anger. 

“Then shut your damn mouth and mind your own business,” he snaps, incensed. He's so done, with today and last night and this guy and  _ everything _ . As quickly as it had come, his anger burns itself out and he says miserably in his place in the warm water, wiping sweat from his brow and feeling wretched. He's tired of everything. Of everyone. Tired of feeling tired. 

Tired of feeling so trapped. 

“My brother was an alcoholic,” Castiel doesn't quite meet his eyes as he says this. His tone is cold and detached but there's something in his face that gives Dean pause. “So forgive me if I assumed you were too since all I've ever seen you do is drink. It's a sore spot, you might say.”

“Don't you think this conversation is a bit too damn personal for someone you barely know?” Dean grumbles at him, knowing his own cheeks are burning now from an intense mixture of denial, exhaustion, humiliation and the last dregs of his anger. 

“Sorry.” Castiel shrugs, not looking sorry in the slightest. “My social skills must be rusty.” 

They lapse into a tense, uncomfortable silence. Dean still wants desperately to climb out of the tub but he doesn't feel like manoeuvring past this guy who's head is irritatingly right where his crotch would be should he decide to get out. His swim shorts have a habit of clinging to his skin and he doesn't want to give the guy an eyeful. So, for now, he's trapped. At least until Castiel gets bored and decides to fuck off. An older couple approaches the jacuzzi, eyeing the pair of them balefully before deciding that they'd rather not share with others and they amble off towards the sauna instead. Dean’s fingers are starting to prune. Castiel’s must be too since he's been in here longer. It's probably time for him to get out, dry off, change, and head home to face… her. 

He doesn't move an inch. 

“Why were you such an asshole to me last night?” The words tumble out before they even properly register and he clamps his lips shut belatedly, groaning inwardly at his own idiocy. Castiel raises an eyebrow. 

“An eye for an eye, don't you think?”

“What?” Dean stares back, totally nonplussed. 

“You and your wife were assholes to my friend and I the very first time we met, and with no reason at all. Don't you think that deserves some retaliation?”

“I have noclue what you're talking about,” Dean snaps. “And she isn't my wife.” He adds as an afterthought. He runs through the last few weeks feverishly, thinking of when he last saw Castiel before the previous night. Then he realises - the charity event. He was there with his blonde friend and Amara had said…

“Oh shit,” he murmurs. “I totally forgot.”

“Oh, did you?” Castiel’s eyebrow arches. “I suppose you and her look down on so many people that Meg and I barely crossed your radar.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean begins then, as the memory of how scathing Amara had been last night surfaces he thinks better of his words. He should be apologising, not making it all worse. “Okay, look. I had a rough night.  _ Both _ times,” He clarifies as Castiel opens his mouth to argue. “And maybe I didn't step in as I should. She was being…”  _ A bitch, _ his mind supplies but he can't quite make himself slander Amara to this virtual stranger. “Difficult. She can be like that. It wasn't you.”

“Well, that would be comforting,” Castiel replies. “If I thought for a second that it was me. Or Meg. But I didn't. What I  _ don't _ know is why you're with her if she's so  _ difficult  _ and speaks to strangers in a way you find embarrassing.”

“I never said I was…” Dean trails off because damn Castiel, he's right. He does find it embarrassing. Humiliating, even. Especially when he gets tarred with the same brush. 

“It's written all over your face.” Castiel shrugs. “I thought I'd enlighten you since it seemed beyond your reach.”

“Now who's being an asshole?”

“Me, probably. I never do know when to stop talking.”

In disparity to his words, Castiel lapses into silence and neither of them speaks for a while. Dean can't remember the last time anyone who wasn't a close friend was so blunt with him, so lacking in all the usual social cues that prevent people from making deeply personal comments with no invitation whatsoever. Amara is pretty straightforward but not always in a way he appreciates. Even Sam tends to dance around his point for a while before making it. It's infuriating. Refreshing, but infuriating. 

“You said your brother  _ was _ an alcoholic,” he eventually ventures, curiosity getting the better of him. “He's better now?”

Bright blue eyes pin him in his seat. He almost shrinks back from the intensity of the stare. 

“No, Dean,” Castiel says slowly, his voice carefully neutral. “He's dead. Six years ago.”

“Oh.” Dean’s throat constricts but it doesn't seem to matter. There's nothing he can say to make this any better, nothing at all. He just stares at Castiel who looks levelly back at him as though trying to suss him out. Trying to see if his words had any effect at all. Dean wonders if the shock and discomfort show as drastically in his expression as it feels. 

“Drank too much at a bar after work,” Castiel continues in the same cool monotone. “Got behind the wheel of his car. Never made it home.”

“I'm… Jesus, man, I'm so sorry.” 

The words feel flimsy, futile. Senseless. But he can't think of anything else to say. Castiel just shrugs one shoulder. 

“It is what it is. I tried to help him, everyone did. But he didn't want our help and eventually it killed him. It was going that way, one way or another. I'm just glad he didn't take anyone else with him.”

That clearly isn't how Castiel feels about the situation. There's something guarded in his expression, his tone a little too flat. But Dean is no more willing to tug on that thread than Castiel is to divulge all of his skeletons at once. They lapse again into silence before Castiel turns to look at the clock on the swimming pool wall. 

“Think about it, Dean. Maybe I'm wrong - I hope I am. And I'm sorry if I overstepped. But you don't seem, ah, in the best place right now. So maybe a firm word from a friend is what you need.”

“You're not my friend.” It's all he can think of to say. He feels completely blindsided by the conversation and half wonders if he's still passed out in bed at home and having the world’s most fucked-up dream. That feeling intensifies when Castiel peers at him then shrugs, standing up. Water cascades off him and while he isn't fit in the conventional sense, he has some definition to his chest and his thighs are thick and firm where Dean can see them between his wet swim shorts and the bubbling water. He realises he's staring and redirects his gaze upwards to find the blue eyes watching him curiously. 

“I suppose not. And you aren't mine. At least we've established that if nothing else.” He turns and climbs up the steps, holding onto the handrail for stability. “See you, Dean.”

Then he's gone, padding away towards the showers and shaking water from his hair, and Dean sags back into himself, wondering what the fuck just happened. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Things go from bad to worse with disconcerting speed.

Amara goes to stay at her sister’s for a couple of days and Dean has some breathing space - during which he seems to do nothing but relive the weird conversation in the jacuzzi and dodge Sam’s calls - but when she gets back the atmosphere between them is colder than liquid nitrogen. Every word out of her mouth is a sharp barb in his direction, every glance across the kitchen or bedroom loaded with ire, and Dean feels like he’s constantly walking on eggshells. It’s doing nothing for his nerves which are close to shredded.

And on top of it all, Castiel’s words are swimming in his mind, pushing themselves in where they're not wanted. The expression on his face and the careless way he spoke of Dean’s drinking and his relationship and his life, it had almost been too much. And now, it haunts him. He wants so badly to go back in time and set Castiel straight, tell him that things are fine with Amara and he's just a social drinker and that Castiel is barking up the wrong tee. That his life is just fine and Castiel has no business commenting on it at all.

He lies in bed one night, churning it all over in his mind. He hates to admit it, but maybe he does drink a little too much - three glasses of whiskey tonight and two beers - but it helps. He's more relaxed if he's had a drink, which means he and Amara don't fight as much. They don't speak as much, frankly, but that suits him just fine right now. It's just a rough patch, they'll be fine. They always are. And when things are back to normal, he’ll stop drinking entirely. Maybe go teetotal for a month or two. That'll show Castiel.

He turns over, huffing angrily. Amara is downstairs on the phone and he pulls his pillow over his head to block out her glittery laughter.

Why does he even care what Castiel thinks anyway? Why does he care at all?

Little does he know, across town two people are having a very similar discussion.

 

*

 

“I don’t know why you even give a damn, I really don’t,” Meg says, pushing her blonde curls out of her face. “He seems like an ass to me.”

“He is. Kinda. But maybe there’s more to it than you think.” Castiel leans his arm on the back of the couch, resting his chin on his hand, and watches Meg make coffee for them both in her underwear. It's late, the hour crawling towards midnight, and he's wrapped in a blanket with their combined sweat cooling on his skin, feeling strangely disconnected from her tonight. For some reason that currently escapes him, he hasn't been able to shake off the conversation he had with Dean earlier in the week.

“Don't you think something is off there? With him and his wife?”

“Girlfriend,” Meg corrects him lazily. “They're not married.”

“No, of course not. I think I knew that.” Castiel frowns. “Something just doesn't seem right. The way he talks about her…”

“You've spoken to him a total of, what, three times?” Meg walks back across the room, her blonde curls bouncing with each step, and deposits a hot cup of coffee into Castiel’s hands. She sits down next to him, one leg tucked beneath her, and regards him critically. “And he's been a total ass every time. Why do you care? Whatever's wrong, it probably serves him right.”

She squeezes his thigh and he unconsciously tightens the blanket around him. He's itching to be alone now, for some peace and quiet to just think.

To think, probably, about Dean Winchester.

There's something about the man that Castiel just can't put out of his mind. Something in his eyes when he spoke of Amara. A tension in his shoulders. The way his gaze flicked away from Castiel, the way his embarrassment was almost carved into his skin.

He rolls over onto his side, placing the coffee on the nightstand, and pulls the blanket up to his neck to dissuade any further conversation or cuddling.

_She was being difficult. She can be like that._

The excuses fell so easily off of Dean’s tongue Castiel can’t help but wonder how many times he’s used them before, how many times he’s repeated them to himself...

 

*

 

Dean stiffens when the key sounds in the lock. He always does. It's a reflexive action, his muscles coiling in preparation for a fight every time Amara walks through the door these days. The sound of her heels on the wooden floor jars him, each step seeming as loud as a bullet. His heart rate feels as though it's doubled and all she's done is come home.

Shifting in his seat in the kitchen, he listens to her put her keys away. There's a cup of coffee log cold by his hand because he's been waiting for a while. Hours, it feels like. Eventually, Amara walks into the room and her cool smile freezes on her lips as she takes in the scene before her. Dean, still in his grease-stained jeans from the garage, sitting at the table.

And, before him, spread out on the table, are two credit card statements totalling thousands of dollars.

“Dean,” Amara says slowly, sliding her coat from her shoulders as she takes in the sight of the papers. “What's this?”

“I think you know exactly what this is.”

He tries to hold her gaze but her eyes have darkened with fury and he looks down at the pages instead. Streams of black type, endless lists of stores where she's been shopping, spending dollar after dollar when she knows, _she knows_ that money is tight and that he's working eighty hours a week just to cover their rent and bills as it is. Interest totals are staggered throughout the statement, well into the hundreds themselves, and it sickens him to see them. To see the evidence of just how little she cares about their financial situation as a couple. How little she must truly care for him.

The letters had been shoved away in a pile beneath a selection of fashion magazines, and he'd found them when he was searching for the insurance paperwork for the car. He'd opened them by mistake, in truth, distracted by thoughts of the vast electric bill that had just landed on his desk at the garage. When he'd opened the statement, he'd initially thought there had been some mistake. That the letter had been sent to the wrong person. But he'd sunk down on the couch in shock as he read the names of all Amara’s favourite stores, the beauty parlour where she has her nails done, the hair salon that she evidently frequents much more often than he'd realised. The list went on and on and his shock had soon thawed away into heated anger. How could she do this to him? Get herself into so much debt without telling him, be so goddamn irresponsible?

“And you saw fit to open my mail, did you?” Her sharp voice draws him back to the present. “You really don't trust me at all, do you?”

“Trust you? _Trust you?”_ He stands so quickly that the stool falls over behind him with a crash and rolls off to one side. “How can I trust you when I've just discovered how much you're hiding from me? How could you do this to me? To us?”

“Don't be so dramatic, Dean.” She puts her purse down on the table, fishes out her phone and starts texting. “You always get so wound up and it's childish.”

“Wound up? Wound _up_?” Stress and anger are robbing him of the speech he'd practiced over and over while he'd been waiting for her. How can she stand there and act like he's the one in the wrong? “My goddamn name is on this!” He sweeps up one of the statements and shakes it so hard it tears. “How did you even open this account without me knowing?”

And it's true: the account is in joint names. It ties him to the wildly increasing debt and he fights back a wave of panic at how it could affect the garage if it can't be paid off. Which, right now, it can't be.

“Dean, you're being ridiculous.” She laughs - actually laughs - and fury boils up inside him, so much so that his vision swims with it.

“What’s _ridiculous_ is that I’m still standing here listening to your shit,” he says icily. She actually glances away from her phone for that - hallelujah - but he’s done. He is so fucking done. Feeling like he can’t even look at her anymore, he storms past her, wincing when he accidentally bumps against her shoulder and then doubling his pace when he hears the clicking of her heels following after him.

He throws their bedroom door open and turns to slam it in her face but he’s too slow because she’s right there.

How is she always _right there_ except when he actually fucking needs her?

“Don't you dare touch me, Dean,” Amara says icily but advances a step towards him as she speaks, her eyes flashing like fire.

“I don't want to fight any more, not tonight.” Exhaustion seems to have seeped bone-deep into him and he reaches for her hand to apologize, only to be slapped away. “C’mon. Let's just forget it all and go to bed, okay? I'm exhausted, I have to be up early…”

“So you act like a total ass, then expect me not to care?” She sneers at him and his heart pounds. An unpleasant sensation is opening up beneath his ribs, anxiety and fear all combined into one. He tries to get away from her again and turns to walk into the bathroom. Almost instantly, the room feels too small, the walls too close, and the ceiling too low. She’s right fucking there again, and he's suddenly hot all over, so he steps back to get some space, brought to an immediate halt by the shower screen. “I don’t think so. This would never have happened if you hadn't opened my mail in the first place.”

“It was an accident! I was distracted!” He’s raised his hands in supplication, anything to try and calm the situation down. “You should have told me you were having money troubles, I could have helped…”

“With what?” she snaps at him acidly. “You're poor as shit, Dean, we all know it.”

He pauses, thrown. They _all_ know it?

“The hell do you mean?”

“Oh, come _on_. Even your brother offered you money. I'm tired of being with someone with no aspirations, no financial stability, no future. I want more than this!”

“So do I!” The tension that had been cooking in his belly builds and erupts and he's shouting before he even realises the words are out of his mouth. “I want more than this bullshit! I don't wanna fight every day, I don't wanna have to walk on eggshells around you! I wanna trust you! And I can't fucking do that, can I? You're a liar and-”

The next few seconds happen in slow motion.   
Amara steps in close to him, a fire in her eyes like he's never seen before, her face twisted in cruel fury. She fists her hands in his t-shirt and he reaches up to grip her wrists, drag her off him. But before he can, she pushes him backwards. Hard.

The glass wall of the shower screen is behind him. The one he's been meaning to take a look at for weeks. And she pushes him hard enough to send all of his weight falling back against it, his hands scrabbling wildly for purchase on something and finding nothing.

The screen shatters.

The sound of glass explodes all around him as he falls back into the walk-in.

His head cracks against the expensive tiled wall and he remembers nothing but blackness.

 

*

 

The first thing he notices when he regains consciousness a while later probably should be the pain in his head, which is close to blinding. Or maybe the blood that has somehow dripped into his eyes and grown tacky as it dried. Or the shower of splintered glass which covers him like a fine snow and makes a light tinkling sound when he moves. But what registers enough to drag him back to the world is the pain in his back from where he’s lying half in and half out of the shower stall, the metal trim digging painfully into his lower back. He groans, blinking hazily, and for a minute he can’t remember where he is. He’s facing the shower wall, half-curled on his side, and it takes him a long moment before he can summon the energy to try and push himself up onto an elbow, shards of glass tumbling from his clothing and skin into the shower. His brain is foggy and slow to send signals to his limbs, making sitting up and looking around him a chore. The room is spinning and he feels like he might throw up, light tremors shaking his arms and legs as he drags himself from the stall onto his knees before collapsing against the wall.

_What the fuck happened here?_

It comes back to him in unpleasant Polaroid snapshots. The bank statement. The fight. Him storming off to get away from her and her following him. Things grow hazy then but he can put it together and it draws a low whine of distress from him. Things have gotten way out of hand and right now he can’t begin to sort through his emotions. Right now, he needs help.

He fumbles for his phone, knowing it should be about his person somewhere, in a pocket or on the floor, and when he finds it his fingers are slugging to type in the code and search for his brother’s number. Calling Sam is the very, very last thing he wants to do but he can’t gather his thoughts enough to think up anyone else. An ambulance might be a good idea, but he doesn’t want to waste the paramedics time when he’s only got a few scratches…

His gaze travels down to his own arm as the phone rings and rings, propped between his cheek and his shoulder. He’s bleeding from multiple cuts, some that look fairly deep, and when he rubs his knuckles across his cheek they come away stained with half-dried blood. What have they done? How has it gotten to this point, where one of them is actually hurt and bleeding? Where did things go so damn wrong?

The ringing on the other line stops abruptly as someone answers.

“Sam?” His voice comes out as a croak and he coughs, tries again. “Sam?”

“No, uh.” The voice on the other end is familiar, desperately so, but Dean’s too unfocused to put a name to it. “This is awkward. It's Castiel. Sam and Gabriel came over for dinner last night and he left his cell phone here. I was going to drop it off later and I shouldn't have answered it really, I didn't think…”

Dean lets him babble on, closing his eyes in an attempt to stop the room from spinning. It doesn't work and a wave of nausea grips him instead, one he can't fight off. He vomits into the glass and blood in the shower stall, coughing up watery bile and trembling with the effort. The phone slips from his hand as he cradles his pounding head. Fuck. He needs to pull himself together.

“Dean!” Castiel’s voice snaps sharp down the phone and Dean manages to focus. It sounds like Castiel had been saying his name a couple of times already. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Of course. I mean...” He manages to pull himself upright against the wall again but his head swims and another bout of nausea threatens. “I've had… I've had better days.”

“What’s wrong?” Castiel’s voice is firm now, harsher and more gravelly than Dean has ever heard it, and he sounds so serious that somehow it’s amusing. A snort of mildly hysterical laughter bubbles from him and he scrubs a shaking hand across his face.

“Fuck. I don’t…” He swallows a mouthful of bile. “Fuck.”

“What happened? Where are you?” He can hear a scuffling sound on the end of the phone. “Dean? Talk to me?”

He needs to get up. Get out of the house, get away from here. But he doesn’t have anywhere he can go. Sam would freak out if he turned up on the step like this. What the hell was he thinking, making this call? Out of desperation and the concern that Amara will return, the next words force themselves from his lips almost without his consent.

“Cas, can I, uh.” He cradles his throbbing head in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't think straight. He just needs to be out, away from here, somewhere, anywhere else. “Can I come over? For a while? I just need…”

He doesn't know what he needs. Not really. And that thought combined with the pain, with the residual shock of the accident brings a burst of tears to his eyes and a choked sob escapes before he can clap a hand to his mouth. Fuck. Castiel, of all people, cannot hear him like this. He needs to clean up, to sort himself out, to hang up the phone.

On the end of the line, he hears the tinkle of what could be cutlery. Or keys. And Castiel’s voice comes through the phone again.

“Dean, I’ll come and get you. You can come here, it's fine. It's not a problem. Just tell me your address.”

He’s silent for a moment, trying to think. This isn’t a good idea, an inner voice is telling him. He doesn’t know Castiel. He doesn’t like Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t like him. What would Castiel think, seeing him like this, in such a state? He shifts and a shard of glass digs deeper into his skin, drawing a cry of pain from his lips. He hears Castiel inhale sharply in his ear.

“Dean, if you don't tell me your address immediately, I'll call your brother and get it from him. And I'll bring him with me.”

Castiel’s tone is stony and leave no doubt about how serious he is. Dean’s heart feels like it's pounding between his temples. He cannot let Sammy see him like this. Not now, not ever. He never should have called his brother’s number to begin with. The room spins again and he tips his head back against the wall, groaning as pain splits through his skull.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice sounds different now, thick with concern. “Dean, listen to me. What's your address? Dean? Dean!”

  
*

 

Less than a half hour later, Castiel knocks on the front door gingerly, unsure what to do. Dean had sounded so dreadful on the phone that there's a very good chance he could be passed out now and unable to answer his own door. At the same time, maybe Castiel was just imagining things and walking into someone's home unannounced feels like a huge violation of their privacy. But when Dean doesn't answer on his third knock, Castiel is at a loss for anything else to do. He tries the handle and, finding it unlocked, enters with some trepidation.

The house is quiet and still, and Castiel immediately feels guilty just being there. He calls Dean’s name quietly, closing the door behind him, but gets no reply. The living room is devoid of life, as is the kitchen. He tries one bedroom, which looks to be a guest room, then another. Then the bedroom that must be the master, with the door to the en suite open.   
With a mounting sense of concern, Castiel pushes open the only door left, the door to what must be the master bathroom. There, against the wall with bloody cuts to his arms, neck and face, Dean is sitting with his head in his hands. There's broken glass all over the floor, spots and streaks of blood where Dean’s clearly pulled himself up out of the shower stall and moved away from the worst of the mess, and there's a rank smell of sweat and vomit in the air.

Dean looks up at the sound of the door opening. His eyes are bloodshot and there's a nasty cut bisecting his bottom lip, and a bruise blossoming below his left eye. He blinks dazedly, then manages something akin to a smile.

“Hey, Cas.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, you're all overwhelming me with the positive responses to this story. This is not an easy topic to write about but one I felt like tackling, and the responses to each chapter have been fantastic. Thank you, and I'm sorry I've been shoddy at replying to comments ♥ I read every single one, probably multiple times!
> 
> Onward!

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Dean. Please. You need to talk about this.”

“No, I don't.”  _ And certainly not with you.  _

“Then I'll call the cops and you can tell them.”

“What?” Dean whips around to look at Castiel, groaning as he realises his error, dropping his head into his hands instead and swaying where he sits. His feet are tucked beneath him on a carved wooden bench with only a thin patterned cushion for comfort. “Shit.”

“I really wish you'd let me take you to the emergency room.” Castiel kneels down in front of him, placing a hand on his knee and seeming neither to realise nor care that it's too intimate a gesture for the state of their current friendship. If it can even be called that. “You probably have a concussion.”

“And they'll just tell you to keep an eye on me in case I pass out or die or something.” He manages to sit up again, reaching with a trembling hand towards the glass of water on the little folding table in front of him. “I hate hospitals. If I keel over and die then you have my full permission to call an ambulance. But not until then.”

“I think a mortician would be more appropriate under that circumstance. I wouldn't want to waste the paramedics’ time.” Castiel is still kneeling on the hard ground, frowning up at him. 

“Okay, smartass. Whatever you want.”

He leans back on the bench, tugging the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, and cradles the remainder of the water in the crook of his elbow. The breeze is nice, cooling on his overheated skin, and the stars above him seem to shimmer and twinkle much more than usual. He can probably chalk that up to the concussion that he most probably, definitely has. 

They're on Castiel’s roof. Getting here is all a bit of a confused, jumbled blur involving a rickety fire escape, a pair of very concerned blue eyes, and the worst car Dean has ever seen, but he's here. He's very much here, in Castiel’s building, alone with him, and he can't remember feeling so physically and emotionally terrible in a long goddamn time. Castiel has tended to the worst of his cuts already, back at his own home with the assistance of his doctor friend, picking shards of broken glass out of his face and arms with a pair of Amara’s tweezers, but the headache and nausea won't abate. He knows he should go to the emergency room. He knows he should maybe have a head CT, considering that he was knocked unconscious. He knows he might have microscopic glass shards still embedded in his skin. But the thought of the hospital chills him and the flesh on his forearms gooses. He can't contain a shiver. 

“Hey, are you cold?” Castiel drags another blanket over from a nearby bench, draping it over Dean’s legs amid muted protests. Then, to Dean’s dumbfounded shock, he takes hold of Dean’s wrist and starts gently rubbing up and down his forearm in an attempt to warm him up. He's so carefully mindful of the cuts marring Dean’s tan skin that it makes his heart clench. “You're gonna catch a cold sitting out here. We should go inside.”

“It's summer. It's not even that cold out here.” Dean attempts a laugh but it hurts just about every part of him. He probably should go inside. He probably should go to the emergency room. He probably should call the cops. Should change the locks on their apartment doors. Should delete Amara’s number. Should call Sam and Gabe and ask to stay at their place. Should, should, should. 

He doesn't want to do any of those things. Somehow, sitting out here with Castiel is soothing him. It's the city lights below them, maybe. The warm breeze ruffling his hair. The excess of pot plants that seem to be sprouting absolutely everywhere around him. 

And it's Castiel himself, stoic and unflappable, concerned but not pushing, looking after him when he's at rock bottom. This must be rock bottom, has to be. He's never felt this pitifully low before, like his entire life has just imploded before his eyes and left him a cracked, broken shell of a man with no idea what to do next. 

He sits and stares off at the city lights, remembering the deep concern that had laced Castiel’s voice back in his bathroom while they were both sitting amid shattered glass and his own splattered blood. 

_ Dean, what happened here? _

_ Dean, you're bleeding.  _

_ Dean, please let me take you to the emergency room.  _

_ Dean. Dean, stay with me.  _

He closes his eyes at the memory of Castiel’s unwavering, unconditional attention. No matter how many times he had tried weakly to bat him away, Castiel had knelt beside him and refused to leave. The entire experience comes back to him with startling, cloying clarity; the smell of blood and antiseptic, the crunch of glass, the touch of Castiel’s hand on his arm. He slowly loses himself to the memory of it, and of how relieved he was when the silhouette of the older man had appeared in his bathroom door…

 

*

 

Dean doesn't volunteer the facts and Castiel doesn't ask. He works quickly, helping Dean out of his bloodstained shirt and sitting him against the tiled wall, finding their meagre first aid kit and pulling out anything that might be useful. Any suggestion of calling an ambulance is instantly crushed and Castiel soon gives up asking, but the frown on his face stays firmly put. 

“My friend works in the ER,” Castiel says eventually as he holds a damp washcloth to Dean’s forehead, soaking up the dried blood. “At least let me call him for some advice.”

“Fine.” Dean turns his head so his cheek is pushed up against the cool tile. His head hurts too much for him to care what Castiel does right now, so long as a bunch of cops and paramedics don't show up on the doorstep. Calling a doctor friend seems like a pretty wise idea, all things considered. 

Castiel leaves him for a moment to talk on the phone, his voice muffled behind the closed bathroom door, then a moment later he's back. Dean has closed his eyes and is trying to breathe deeply to regulate the pounding behind them. He hears Castiel shuffle about in front of him, then a moment later a sharp British voice is coming from somewhere to his left. He cracks an eye to look: Castiel has placed his friend on speaker and put the phone on the sink to pave his hands free. 

“And why exactly are we having this conversation over the phone rather than in curtain two?” Balthazar’s low drawl sounds as though it has taken on a note of irritation. “I'm not a telephone hotline, Cassie. And if I were, you couldn't afford me.”

“I know. But…” Castiel’s eyes wander over to Dean. “We just can't come down right now. Can't you help?”

“I could lose my medical license if I didn't strongly recommend that you bring him down to be seen. Which I do.”

“Balthazar, please, I-”

“All I can do is offer you some basic advice over the phone and strongly recommend you get him to urgent care. Basic advice, Cassie. Got it?”

Balthazar then proceeds, in intricate detail, to walk Castiel through tending to Dean’s cuts, removing the shards of broken glass, applying antiseptic, bandaging and band-aiding, and taking note of the ones that look particularly deep. It takes over an hour and Dean drifts in and out the entire time. Sometimes he sinks into blissfully cool blackness, others he's awake and alert and listens to the man’s low British drawl as he issues endless instructions, repeats them, responds to Castiel's concerned vocalisations, and repeats over and over again that they should be in the emergency room right now. 

“No,” Dean murmurs at one point. “I can't. I just can't.”

“Why not?” It's the first time Balthazar has addressed him directly during the entire conversation. “Dean, whatever happened, we can help. Cassie and I, let us help you.”

“He is helping.” Dean presses his cheek to the cool bathroom tile as Castiel wipes a cotton pad saturated with antiseptic over a particularly painful laceration. “You're both helping. I'll be fine. It was an accident.”

A frustrated sigh sounds from the cell phone. 

“Well, if you ever decide that it wasn't then you know where to find me. I think Cassie can handle this from here.”

He disconnects a moment later and Dean watches as Castiel tapes some gauze onto the back of his left wrist over a particularly nasty cut. 

“Cassie,” he repeats and Castiel sends him a baleful look. “Gabriel always talked about his cousin Cassie. I just always assumed you were a girl.”

“Yes, well, sorry to disappoint.” Castiel tears a strip of tape from a roll with his teeth. “I look terrible in a dress.”

“That sounds like it's coming from experience.”

“It is. A misspent youth dressing up in French maid outfits and running marathons for charity.” The tape is pressed in place and Castiel sits back on his heels. “I think you're done. You're sure I can't call anyone for you? Not even Sam?”

“No.” He manages to get himself up onto his knees, then to his feet with Castiel’s help. “I should probably just sleep or something…  _ God! _ ”

He doubles over in pain as the throbbing behind his eyes intensifies, his vision blurring, and the next thing he knows is Castiel easing him down onto his bed and talking to him in low, firm tones. He watches through slitted eyes as Castiel ferrets about in his closet until he pulls out a battered hold-all then fills it with boxers, t-shirts, jeans, and soft pajama pants. 

“What are you doing?” he grits out. He's not going to the hospital, he's  _ not _ . If he has to kick and scream to get his point across, then he will. If he can. That's debatable at the moment. 

“I'm not leaving you here like this. C’mon.” Castiel leans down and pulls Dean to his feet, his shoulder beneath Dean’s armpit and his arm around his waist, the bag held in his other free hand. “We’re going to my place. And don't even think about arguing.”

 

*

 

So here they are. Sitting in Castiel’s rooftop garden with Dean patched up and aching. He's alone for the moment. Castiel has gone to make them some sweet tea, and Dean is appreciating the solitude. He can't begin to unpack what's happened tonight. His phone is dark and silent on the table in front of him, not a single text or missed call from Amara. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Can he even go home? Will she be there when he does? And if she is, what happens then? He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them morosely. Footsteps sound on the fire escape then Castiel comes into view with two cups carefully balanced in one hand. 

“Lemon tea with honey,” Castiel says, putting the steaming cups down on the table in front of them. “It'll help.”

Help with what exactly, he doesn't say. He doesn't need to. It's clear that Castiel is drawing his own conclusions about Dean’s fucked up mess of a life right now, and they may or may not be correct. But he's about to find out. He knew Castiel would want to tackle the elephant in the room sooner rather than later, and he isn't disappointed. 

“What happened, Dean?” comes the gentle question, and Dean just shakes his head in response, wincing at the movement. 

“I tripped.” It's the best - and only - excuse he can come up with in that moment. He knows Castiel won't buy it for a second, and that's confirmed when the older man shakes his head. 

“Were you drunk?”

It's the last thing he expected to hear and Dean balks in shock. 

“No!”

“I don't believe you.” Castiel is so stern, so matter-of-fact, so goddamn  _ certain _ that Dean cringes away from him and drops his gaze to his lap. 

“I wasn't. I swear.” 

He feels like he's about fifteen and answering to a fuming parent about why he broke curfew or cheated on a science test. He feels reprimanded, and it's such a familiar feeling that he immediately submits to Castiel's stern gaze. A gaze which melts away into sympathy and concern as soon as Castiel catches sight of the expression on Dean’s face. He moves a little closer and Dean can feel his body heat - they're sitting shoulder-to-shoulder now. 

“Dean. What's going on? I know you think I'm an ass-”

“Yeah,” Dean manages a hollow laugh, finding his eyes suddenly damp along his lash line. “You kinda are.”

“I'm the ass who came to your rescue,” Castiel nudges Dean’s elbow with his own, reassuring in his joke. “But if something’s wrong, I could help. I  _ can _ help. If it's the alcohol, then-”

“No, Cas.” Dean laughs again, wetly this time, and has to wipe his eyes.  “It's not the alcohol. Well, not completely. But you don't need to worry about me, everything's fine. Just… one of those days, I guess.”

“‘One of those days?!’” Castiel parrots, staring at him, appalled. “Dean, I had to pick you up off your bathroom floor. You're bleeding. You look like you're about to cry or keel over, or possibly both. This isn't ‘one of those days’. This is serious, Dean. What would have happened if I hadn't picked up Sam’s phone? If I couldn't come, or chose not to?”

“Then you'd definitely be an ass,” Dean says to his fingers. “And I’d have been fine.”

“Fine. Fine, fine, fine, is that all you ever say?” Castiel’s tone isn't as harsh as his words. “You never told me why Amara wasn't home.”

He doesn't mean to tense up at the sound of her name from Castiel’s lips. He doesn't mean to let slip a tiny exhale of instant panic. He doesn't mean to duck his head and avert his gaze. But it all happens and, typically, Castiel sits up a little straighter, on high alert like some fucking guard dog hearing an unfamiliar sound. 

“Dean?” 

He’s pushing now, about to press for answers, and Dean isn't ready to give them. He can't. How can he tell Castiel what really happened when he can barely get his head around it himself? He flinches under the blanket, pulling it a little tighter in a weak attempt at protection. 

“Did you have an argument with Amara?” 

The question is posed as though Castiel is talking to a particularly difficult child. He shakes his head. He can't talk about this. Can barely think about it. Refuses to pick at the scab covering the agonising pain of knowing Amara just walked out on him, left him in a pathetically unconscious puddle in his own bathroom. 

“Dean? Can I ask you something?” Castiel shifts so that one leg is tucked beneath him and he's facing Dean, one arm braced on the back of the bench, close enough to touch. “Without freaking you out?”

“I guess…” He eyes Castiel warily, wondering what's coming. Whatever it is, he probably isn't going to want to hear it. 

“Is domestic abuse an issue in your relationship?”

Yep, he definitely didn't want to hear it. And, wait, what?

“No!” he balks, flinching back then groaning as his elbow comes into contact with the arm of the bench. “How can you say that?”

“Because of the way you are together. Because I saw how she was at the bar the other night. Because you're covered in cuts and bruises and she's nowhere to be seen.” A pause. “And because you flinch like a frightened rabbit if I get too close and you're not expecting it.”

No. No, no, no, Castiel has this all wrong. He's cold all over, suddenly chilled in spite of the summer air. 

“But…” Dean falters, confused and suddenly very, very worried. “I've never hit her, Cas. I've never hurt her. I never would.”  _ Please don't think that of me. I could never put anyone through what she's put me through.  _

“I know that,” Castiel says slowly, blue eyes focused intently on Dean. “Domestic abuse comes in many forms, not just the man hitting the woman. You do know that?”

He's never given it much thought. Or any thought, truly. And now that he thinks on it, he's not sure Castiel is right. He thinks of high-profile cases on TV or on internet news sites. Men, arrested and shamed for attacking their wives. He can't think of any that have been the other way around. 

“Cas, it's not what you think,” he insists, his voice cracking a little with desperation. “I'm not an abuser, we just fight sometimes, we…”

“Dean.” Castiel’s hand covers his and his voice leaves no room for arguing. “I know you're not. But from what I can gather, there's something wrong in your relationship and it's toxic for you. Look at what happened tonight. Think about what  _ could _ have happened.” 

Dean would rather not, thanks very much. 

“Dean, domestic violence is very serious,” Castiel says, his hand burning hot where it's resting on Dean’s arm. “And from what I've seen today…”

“You've seen nothing.” Panic uncoils itself in his chest, bursting out frantically. “I fell, that's all. We were arguing, we always argue. That's all. I stepped back and I fell and the glass broke, and I…”

“And she just left you there?” Castiel interrupts. He's pushing, and if Dean were in any fit state he'd just clam up and the conversation would be at an end. But he's suddenly burning with the need for Castiel to know he's  _ not _ a victim in this whole fucked up scenario, that it was an  _ accident _ , that Amara didn't mean it, doesn't mean any of it. To his horror, years of frustration are collecting along his lashes and he tries to blink them back. Instead, treacherously, one escapes and tracks its way down his cheek. He doesn't bother to draw more attention to it by brushing it away. 

“Maybe she didn't realise,” he babbles, trying to think on his feet. Trying to find a way out of the corner he's somehow painted himself into. He fixes his gaze on a bushy ficus plant and speaks directly to it instead of Castiel. “She didn't realise what had happened. It probably scared her. She doesn't like blood, you see, it makes her sick, and…”

“Stop! Dean, just stop!” The horror in Castiel’s voice makes Dean’s head jerk back to him; the blue eyes are wide, appalled, and Dean shrinks back reflexively from the raised voice. “Can you hear yourself? Amara pushed you through a glass door,  _ left _ you there, and you're trying to make excuses for her?”

“I'm not making excuses!” he says, rattled. “I'm trying to make you understand, she didn't do it on purpose. I'm… I'm sure she didn't.” The words sound weak to his own ears. Castiel is shaking his head and Dean barrels on before he can interrupt. “It was my fault, really. I wound her up, we were fighting. I took it too far. It was just a dumb accident. Honestly, it was.”

He doesn't know why it's so important that Castiel believes him, but suddenly it seems like the most vital thing in the world. Castiel  _ has _ to know that Amara didn't do this viciously, she would never want to hurt him like this. It was an accident, just a stupid accident. He repeats it like a mantra and Castiel stays silent, just watching him. 

“Has it happened before, Dean?” he asks quietly a while later. “Has she left marks on you before?”

He goes to emphatically respond that  _ no _ , never, it's never happened before, but he can't make the words come and his hesitation is all Castiel needs. Out of nowhere, a warm hand comes up to rest between his shoulder blades. He tenses for just a second before realising that Castiel isn't about to grab or shove him. He's rubbing his back, gently, slow circular motions that go some way to soothing his fractured nerves. 

“It's okay, Dean. It's going to be okay.”

It isn't okay, but he doesn't have the strength to refute Castiel’s words. He doesn't feel like anything will ever be okay again. Instead, he sits and watches he city lights twinkle below them and they sit in silence for a long, long time. 

 

*

 

He doesn't remember agreeing to stay the night but in hindsight, it's a pretty damn good idea. He can hardly walk, pain radiating up his back and across his shoulders, and his head throbs with every movement up or down. He's tense with the effort of not jarring himself and it seems to magnify every twinge and ache. Climbing down the fire escape and back into Castiel’s apartment seems to take a mammoth effort, and he's exhausted by the time they're back inside. He collapses down on the couch, only to be hauled to his feet again immediately and directed towards what looks like the only bedroom. 

“You're staying here tonight,” Castiel tells him firmly. “And I'm taking the couch. No arguments!” He cuts Dean off smoothly, leaving him gaping like a carp and feeling rather foolish.  “Do you need a hand getting changed, or can you manage?”

And suddenly, out of the blue, it all hits Dean like a freight train. He and Castiel aren't friends. They're barely even acquaintances. Acquaintances who tolerate each other, if that. Yet it doesn't seem to bother Castiel at all that he's dropped whatever plans he had, crossed town, patched Dean up and put his friend’s medical license at risk, and is now giving up his bed for Dean. And he's just offered to help him change. It's too much, too kind, and Dean’s legs give out as he reaches the bed, depositing him onto it rather harder than he would have liked. Dazedly, he shakes his head. 

“I think I'll be okay.”

“Alright. I'll bring you some water and Aspirin, and some crackers. You should probably eat if you feel up to it.”

“Yeah. I guess. Thanks, Cas.” Overwhelmed, it comes out as a grunt, but Castiel just smiles. 

“It's fine. I'm sure I'll get my reward in heaven.” He turns and heads for the door, but before he can pull it closed, Dean finds his voice again. 

“Cas? I'm sorry. For being, uh, for being such a dick. Before. I didn't mean to be.”

“Don't worry about it.” He catches a warm smile through the crack in the door, then it closes and he's alone. 

He manages to change into the plaid pajama pants Castiel had packed for him, and doesn't bother with a shirt. He's too sore and worries that if any of his cuts open up during the night that he’ll end up stuck to any clothing he puts on. Eventually, when he feels on the edge of collapse, he lies down and drags the blankets over his exhausted body with an audible sigh. The mattress is softer than he's used to, definitely cheaper than his own, but at this moment he can't ever remember feeling so damn comfortable. He switches the light out, and in the darkness Castiel’s voice becomes audible and he knows instantly who he's talking to. 

“He's fine,” he hears Castiel saying and he burrows a little more into the soft pillows, wanting to cover his ears and block out the world. Cas is talking to Sam, and Dean feels his world collapse around him a little more. “An accident. Yes. Yes, he's staying here. No, I haven't called her. No, I'm not going to. I'll explain everything later. Yes… I know. Yes.”

The final ‘yes’ is said with a heaviness that Dean recognises. It's a type of bone-deep sadness and he's awash with guilt at dragging someone else down into his twisted little life when all he's done is try to keep everything going and make everyone happy. And he's failed on all counts. 

Castiel’s sheets smell of cinnamon and hemp, the body wash Dean had noticed in his shower stall when he was washing up for bed. Some expensive organic shit in a fairly plain bottle. He'd picked it up in a daze, opened the cap to smell it, and then had felt guilty for intruding on Castiel’s privacy. 

He’s so lost in the soft bedding and warm smell that he doesn't hear Castiel end his call, or get himself ready for bed. He only notices when the light shining beneath the bedroom door suddenly goes out and the apartment is plunged into quiet serenity. Now, alone, he feels like the only person awake in the world. 

His headache has dulled to a manageable throb and the nausea is gone. The worst of the cuts smart painfully but he's okay. He's okay. He’ll be okay, somehow. 

In the dark that night, lying on Castiel’s soft mattress and listening to the gentle snoring coming from the living room, Dean fumbles for his phone. He turns the brightness right down - pretends not to notice the absence of any form of text messages from Amara - and opens up the Google app. 

And into the search bar, he types: _ Domestic abuse helpline. Kansas.  _

Just, you know. For research. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so sorry_ for the delay with this chapter. The reason why can be found [right here](https://twitter.com/coffeeandcas/status/1119684002535878657) ♥

Dean is jerked awake a few hours later by the sound of his phone ringing. He's evidently fallen asleep with it right beside his head because he's instantly deaf in one ear from the loud, sharp noise. He blinks, disoriented, then groans as pain sears through his head behind his eyes, scrabbling to silence his phone with a trembling hand. Shit. This feels like the worst hangover he's ever had and then some. Blearily, he looks at the screen to see Amara’s name and frowns, before turning his head to realise that he's alone, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. The sheets smell different. There's the low sound of cars passing by on the street outside. Amber light from street lamps drifts in from behind the curtains.

This isn't his room. He isn't at home.

Then, with all the grace and finesse of a car crash, everything comes screaming back to him. He freezes, body going immediately tense, and for one sickening moment he feels like he might throw up. His hand smarts with how tight he's suddenly holding the phone. He shouldn't have answered, should have hung up or ignored the call. But he'd forgotten, and it was ringing so loud, and now he doesn't have much of a choice. He lifts the phone to his ear, trepidation and memory coiling nastily in his guts. 

“Amara?” He rasps, throat tightening as he recalls her expression right before she pushed him. He's met with a quivering, shaky sob and, in spite of himself, he frowns. “Are you okay?”

Fuck, he shouldn't be asking that. _She_ should be asking _him_ that, dammit. He turns on his side, eyeballing the door to make sure the ringing hasn't woken Castiel. No light glimmers from the crack beneath it, so that's a positive sign. He hasn't got a clue what time it is, but it's either really late or really early. It's still dark out, and he can't hear any telltale tweet of birds welcoming the dawn. Castiel. Fuck.

Castiel, the weird, nerdy little dude who came to Dean’s aid when he needed it the most. Who didn't sugar-coat his words. Who all but confirmed Dean’s months-long suspicions that his relationship is broken in ways he can never repair, a teacup shattered on the ground that can never come back together again. Castiel, who made him tea and gave him his bed to sleep in. He closes his eyes, trying to engage his brain which feels thick and fluffy like candyfloss. The phone is still pressed to his ear and he lowers the volume even more, not wanting to wake his host.

“Dean, I'm sorry,” Amara sobs, her voice thick with tears. “I don't know what happened, I don't know why I did it, I'm so _sorry,_ Dean.”

He doesn't know what to say. ‘Sorry’ isn't enough, not by a mile, but equally the sound of her so upset that she's struggling to breathe is tugging unpleasantly on his heartstrings. He inhales slowly, exhaling through his mouth, trying to calm himself. He should never have taken this call.

“You pushed me through a glass door, Amara.” Even he's impressed by the coolness of his voice. It's in a sharp juxtaposition to the frantic hammering of his heart. “And then you just left.” It's then that his tone rises a little and a note of hysteria enters it. He has to clench his first to remind himself to stay quiet so he doesn't wake Cas. “You just _left_ me! I could have fucking _died_ , what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn't!” Her cry is nowhere near as quiet as his, and he cringes, pulling the phone an inch away from his ear. “I just saw all the blood Dean, and I panicked! I freaked out! I didn't know what else to do!”

“You shoulda called a damn ambulance, that's what!” He hisses through his teeth.

“But you hate the hospital,” she sniffles wetly down the phone. “I didn't want you to wake up and hate me even _more_!”

She crumbles on the last word, sobbing deeply, and Dean’s heart spasms in spite of himself. He's never been able to deal with her tears; it's something to do with the caregiver in him that just wants to comfort and protect her when she's so low that all she can do is cry. Amara isn't an attractive crier. Her eyes go red almost instantly and her lips and nose swell up. Her cheeks get stained with rouge and the rest of her face goes deathly pale. Her hair ends up a mess from her endless clutching at it. And normally she curls right into Dean’s side and he cradles her until the tears stop.

But he can't do that right now. Even if they weren't half a city apart, he doesn't think he could do it. He's just too hurt, both physically and emotionally. Heartsick, he supposed Sam would call it. He's doing everything he can to keep this relationship afloat, and it's almost killing him. This time, literally. He thinks back to everything that Castiel said, to everything his Google search threw up. To the links he'd clicked on then hastily erased from his history out of guilt. Amara isn't an abuser, she can't be. She never meant this, any of it. Everything has just gotten completely…

“…out of hand,” she's sobbing again, managing to speak through her tears, and Dean can only nod numbly at this. “I'm so sorry, Dean. For everything. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I…” He fumbles over the words, falls silent. He wants to say that no, he just can't. There's too much hurt here. Too much deceit, too many lies. But she descends into fresh sobs and, in spite of himself, his heart aches for her. “I don't know. We need to talk, okay? About a lot of things. I dunno what to think right now.”

“Come home,” Amara whimpers down the line and Dean closes his eyes. He doesn't want to, not right now. “Please. Please, Dean. We can sort this out. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. Please don't leave me. _Please_.”

Then she's sobbing so hard it sounds like she can barely breathe, coughing and howling, and in between cries Dean hears her begging him not to go. Not to leave her alone. Not to leave.

Oh God. It's that plea, the desperate tone to her voice, that does it. Dean’s resolve, shaky and tattered to begin with, breaks and he pushes himself up onto an elbow, the phone pressed tightly to his ear.

“Hey, c’mon now. It's alright. I'm not leaving, okay? I just needed some space.” His throat hurts. Everything hurts.

“Come home,” she sobs wetly. “Dean, please. Please, I need you. I can't do this without you. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I swear. Just come home.”

He hangs up a few moments later and lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling blankly. He's agreed to go to her, so he needs to get his ass moving. But every limb feels lead-lined, the idea of getting up and dressing filling him with anxious dread. He doesn't want to go home. He tries to picture what might happen if he stayed here a while longer. Castiel might come and wake him in the morning, maybe with another cup of that tea if he's lucky. It tasted like little drops of heaven. Maybe, Dean fantasises, Castiel might make breakfast for him. They could eat together, talk a little more. The guy is weirdly easy to talk to, even if he is a bit intense with the open staring and the total disregard for personal space. But then again, Dean muses, if personal space had been a priority for Castiel he probably wouldn't have got himself all bloodied up cleaning the wounds of a virtual stranger, one he didn't seem to much like to begin with.

He's halfway through imagine a plate stacked high with blueberry pancakes when his phone beeps. It's Amara: _Please hurry, Dean. I can't deal with all of this much longer._ Then a stream of crying emojis.

He clasps his cell to his chest then, with some kind of gargantuan effort, hoists himself into a sitting position and casts about for clothing. He checks the time: a little after four. If he's quiet, he can leave without Castiel knowing. And he can call him later and thank him, tell him that he's okay.

Because he is. Okay, that is. Dean Winchester is always okay.

He has to be.

 

*

 

When Castiel wakes a few hours later, he finds a folded note next to his left hand. He opens it with a heavy heart, without bothering to sit up. It reads: _Thank you for last night. It helped. I'm fine now. Dean._

He lies back, holding the note to his chest, a million thoughts spiralling through his mind as he tries to imagine where Dean is right now. Wherever that is, Castiel just hopes he's safe.

 

*

 

“Is it time to stage an intervention yet?”

Seven AM and Sam is stirring vanilla creamer into his coffee, staring down at it like it holds all the answers to life's great questions, as Gabriel watches him from their kitchen island.

“Because I kinda think it is. I know we don't know what happened last night but let's be real, we totally know. And whatever it is, to have Dean scampering off to stay with my cousin, it has to be something pretty bad. I've _seen_ Cassie’s apartment. It falls into the ‘any bolthole in a storm’ category. It ain't the Ritz.”

“I don't think your cousin’s decor is the issue here.” Sam murmurs testily, almost to himself. He's exhausted, wiped out, yet his mind is ablaze with a thousand possible scenarios that could have brought Dean and Castiel together last night. The guy was so vague on the phone that Sam had wanted to jump down the line and strangle him. But no amount of probing for details - or outright threatening - has worked, and he'd gone to bed none the wiser and twice as worried.

_An accident._ What accident? Something at work? A car crash? No, that can't be it because Sam would have been called as Dean’s emergency contact if he'd ended up in the hospital. So something bad, bad enough to send him from his home and into the welcoming arms of a virtual stranger, but not bad enough for medical attention. He sips his coffee, relishing the burn as it all but scalds his throat. He feels like he's failing Dean. The red flags are all there, signifying that his relationship with Amara is growing increasingly wayward, yet whenever Sam tries to get him to talk openly about it his brother either shuts down or brushes it all off with a laugh.

‘Every relationship takes work, Sammy. You know that. Hell, you've got a full-time job with Gabe on your hands. Me and Amara, were just fine. Did anyone ever tell you that you worry too much?’

But now, Sam’s concern feels justified, and he's kicking himself for not pushing Dean harder in their past conversations. He's seen for himself the spiteful, vicious streak Amara has in her but now he's starting to wonder if it's more than that. If she's capable of more than just throwing the odd insult at Dean, more than just bossing him around like a child.

If there's something more sinister going on than he's ever considered.

He watches as Jarvis putters about in their yard, sniffing for the bone he must have buried somewhere. It's going to be another glorious day, clear blue skies stretching on for miles, and Sam’s glad he hasn't put on a tie. The office air con is good, but the journey to work on the streetcar will be hellish in this weather. He's already dreading being pressed up against other commuters and thinks for the hundredth time that they need to buy a second car. His office is near Crown Center, an hour away, and he considers taking a change of shirt just in case he's too hot and sticky by the time he gets there.

“Sammy?” Gabriel appears at his side, stroking his lower back and leaning in to kiss his cheek. He only doesn't have to stand on tiptoe to do it because Sam is still hunched over the counter, lost in thought. “You okay?”

“Not really.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Gabe, call me crazy here, but… you don't think Amara would hurt Dean, do you? Like, really hurt him. Intentionally.”

The words feel sour leaving his lips. Like he's betraying his brother by even speaking of such atrocities. But rather than comforting him, Gabriel purses his lips and his eyes take on a dark, heavy, sorrowful look that makes Sam’s blood chill in his veins.

“A while ago? Nah. She's just a bossy bitch who wants a guy to follows her around like some Disney princess. And Deano played right into that fantasy.” He gives Sam a pointed look, stopping the interruption in its tracks. “But now? After the way she behaved at your birthday? I don't know. I don't want to not know, I want to say hell no, she's a great girl and Dean’s lucky to have her. But… I just don't know.” He wraps an arm around Sam, who leans gratefully into the embrace. “And that scares the shit outta me.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Sam closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Gabe’s caramel-macadamia body wash and coconut shampoo. Guy always smells like a candy shop, it's one of the many, many reasons Sam loves him so deeply. One of the dogs winds it's way around their legs, whining for treats, and he leans down to scratch it behind the ears. “I'll talk to him. You talk to Cas?”

“Sure thing, Sammy. You got it.”

Later, when he's sitting at his desk with his second Starbucks of the day and a fresh shirt on, Gabriel texts him to say that Castiel might drop by tonight. No reply from Dean yet, to any of his texts or calls, but WhatsApp tells him his brother has been online in the last hour. The fact that he's ignoring Sam totally is, oddly, reassuring. If his brother has gone to ground, he'll characteristically need some time before resurfacing, and Sam can work with that.

He replies to Gabe, telling him that they'll barbecue and that Castiel can stay over if he likes, that he can make up the guest room. After all, he wants to appear the gracious host - if only for an hour before he starts interrogating the older man for information, for anything he can work with to try and help his brother.

Sam Winchester is done with being a passive bystander. Time to step up to the bat.

 

*

 

Amara succeeds where Castiel didn't. They end up in the emergency room, where she sits holding his warm hand in her cold one, her hair a mess and her eyes and nose Rudolph-red. The nurses are brisk but friendly, and he's triaged pretty quickly. Only when he's settled in a bed, shirtless and staring blankly ahead of him, does the reality of where he is sink in.

He's in the hospital. The last time he was here, something truly awful had happened. The taste of blood in his mouth, searing pain down his arm, doctors trying to hold him still as he screamed and cried and tries to twist away to look for Bobby. He shivers, and Amara kisses his knuckles.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” she says for the hundredth time and all he can do is shrug and nod. He knows she's sorry. She's shown it in every way she knows how.

When he'd gotten home, she had been out of the door and down the path before Dean’s taxi had even pulled away from the curb. She'd stopped with a hand over her mouth then pulled him slowly inside, taking in the cuts on Dean’s forehead, his cheek, the blood that had seeped through Castiel’s soft t-shirt. He hadn't been able to put his own back on, it was too stained with blood and it would have freaked out the cab driver. She has collapsed into his arms when they'd got inside, sobbing and holding him and crying that she was sorry, so _sorry,_ and she didn't mean it and _please don't leave me, Dean!_ Exhausted and spent, Dean had just cradled her and stroked her hair, silent, and his gaze distant and glazed. He's too vulnerable right now to try and voice his feelings, for fear of her turning from the apologetic, sorrowful woman in his arms to something full of spite and venom.

She had led him to their room, sat him down on the bed, and tried to hold back her tears as she looked him over. Then, with a tone that implied there was no room for argument, she told him where they were going and he complied without a word. _No fighting_ , he told himself, repetitively like some weird mantra. _No fighting. We can fix this. Just don't fight._

So he winds up in the one place he hates the most and has to grit his teeth throughout the entire experience. He leaves with every cut and graze cleaned thoroughly and a few stitches to the one in his arm, stitches that the doctor tells him will dissolve naturally. He barely says a word. All he could think was that Castiel’s hands had felt so much more comforting when they wiped the blood from his skin and pulled shards of broken glass from his flesh with tweezers. With Castiel, it almost hadn't hurt. The doctor was proficient, quick, and British, and there was a look in his blue eyes and a tone to his voice that made Dean feel like they knew each other. But he lay silently on the bed as instructed, gazing at a point in the distance while Amara held his hand, and the doctor left without much further ado.

In the cab on the way home, Dean holds Amara to him with one arm around her shoulders, not because she needs the comfort but because he needs to feel a warm body next to his own, desperate for the comfort that only another human being can provide. Amara is soft and pliant in his arms, holding his hand and stroking the skin of his palm with her thumb. He watches as she does so, looking at the silver ring on her ringer, the red nails, the freckle just above her thumb joint. He tries to remember why he fell in love with her, but comes up with nothing much. He redirects his gaze to the city outside, sees people on their way home from work, and realises he'd been in the hospital for longer than he'd thought. A whole chunk of time lost. He tries to conjure up some feelings on that fact but his chest feels oddly hollow, his mind quiet and blank, and he feels like it doesn't really matter anyway. So he lost a whole day, big deal. There will always be plenty of other days.

Just him and Amara. The way they've always been.

He leans his forehead against the glass and thinks of them when they first met. Dancing together, laughing, eating out, long walks in the park, stargazing in Dean’s car. Her hair soft under his fingers and her lips even softer against his. Love and devotion in her eyes.

He wonders if that person even still exists, or if it was all a figment of his imagination.

 

*

 

Dean wakes in the night, crying in his sleep. He thinks he might have been dreaming about Castiel. He lies still in a patch of moonlight, wiping his eyes and wondering why the mere thought of the older man fills him with both devastating sadness and a flicker of something he thought he'd forgotten long ago. Hope.

Next to him, Amara sleeps on, not even stirring as Dean lies awake for the rest of the night, curled in on himself, thinking deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Castiel's approach to Dean so far? And is it time for a serious intervention?

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Twitter at [coffeeandcas](http://twitter.com/coffeeandcas/).


End file.
